by Susan Dunlap
My salmon arrived. My appetite rebounded. I ate thoughtlessly, staring at the other diners. Despite the weather, and the impending flood, the restaurant was crowded. Whole families were grouped around big tables in the center of the room. Couples sat by the windows. At a corner table, by the window, was Skip Bollo, alone.
Frank had asked Skip about buying a restaurant. That had been only a month ago. Why would he seek another business if he were against growth? He would not want fewer but more people in the area if he were establishing a new restaurant.
I tried some salad. That was good, too.
Why would Frank try to buy a business when he, of all people, knew that the sewer would be delayed indefinitely and he would never be able to open that restaurant?
When I talked with Skip in his office that night, we discussed restaurants on the river. I’d been thinking about moving marijuana from the restaurant, by canoe, to Frank’s trap door. Rather than being interested in a restaurant, per se, Frank might have merely sought a dwelling on the riverbank.
Taking a final large bite of salmon, I got up and made my way to Skip’s table.
As he recognized me approaching, Skip sighed.
I sat down across from him. “I’ll only be a minute.”
He put down his fork and waited.
“Do you remember telling me Frank asked you about restaurants for sale? When was that?”
“A month and a half, maybe two months ago. Why?”
“Was he only interested in restaurants?”
“Restaurants or stores that could be converted to restaurants, like butcher shops or groceries.”
“Was it just places along the river?”
Skip smacked both hands down on the table. “Look, Vejay, you used to be a nice enough young woman, but you’re getting to be a pest. I can’t eat breakfast out without being observed by you. I can’t dine out without you barging in. And what kind of foolish questions are you asking me? ‘Was it only restaurants by the river?’ This is the ‘Russian River Resort Area.’ The attraction here is the river. Restaurants are built by the river, where people can enjoy it. People don’t build their restaurants on the side of the hill, so that they are hard to find, so that there’s no parking, so that mudslides cut off access to them half the year.”
“But did Frank specify he wanted a place on the river?” I insisted.
“I don’t know, Vejay. I can’t remember every word of a conversation that took place months ago. It probably never came up. Now will you go away?”
I wanted to apologize for making such a nuisance of myself, but I couldn’t. I wanted to finish my dinner, but I didn’t do that either. I paid the bill and left.
It was still raining. I considered beginning the six-mile walk. I toyed with the idea of going back to the sheriff’s department and asking for a ride. Instead, I opted for stationing myself on the corner by the traffic light and hoping that someone I knew would come along. I stood under the streetlight and pulled off the hood of my slicker so all my friends (what friends I had left) could see who I was. The rain ran down my hair, down my neck. The strong wind off the Pacific streaked my cheeks.
Still, it wasn’t long before Carlo Fortimiglio’s battered old Chevy pickup pulled over to the curb.
“What are you doing here, Vejay?” Rosa called out the window. She was leaning across Chris.
“Hoping someone would drive me home.”
“Well, get in.”
“Where?” I said, peering into the well-occupied cab.
“Chris can ride in the back,” Rosa offered.
“He’ll be soaked.”
“He can get under the tarpaulin.”
“Or you can sit on my lap,” Chris said to me, as he opened the door and offered me a hand up.
Used to my own little pickup cab, I was surprised at how roomy the old American ones were. Had Rosa and Carlo been thinner, and Chris smaller in general, all of us might have fit on the seat. Even now, perched on Chris’s lap, I had room for my legs and only had to stoop my head a little.
“What are you doing in Guerneville?” I asked before they could question me.
“Carlo had to take a last load of sand to bag around the Simpson house,” Rosa said. “I came along and brought a couple pots of spaghetti up to the shelter.”
“That was nice of you.”
“Well, we had it. And when it floods, some of the new people leave their houses in such a hurry they don’t think to bring food.”
“The river rises much faster than you new folks expect,” Chris said to me. “City people assume it just eases over the banks. They don’t understand that the crest starts upriver and comes down like a wave. One minute a house on the bank is dry and the next, as quick as that, it’s under water. Or washed away.”
“Chris, Chris,” Rosa cried, “no need to scare Vejay.” To me, she added, “You don’t have to worry. Your house is high up. The water never reaches it.”
I smiled halfheartedly. But in the dark cab that made no difference. For lack of anything better to say, I said, “I guess you’ve all had a hard day.”
“Tomorrow’s another long one,” Chris said. “We’ve got another place west of town that needs work. And there are always emergencies right before the flood.”
The truck bounced in a pothole. My head hit the roof.
“You okay, Vejay?”
“Yes. It’s only my head, Chris.”
He laughed.
“Do you remember telling me about Frank collecting oriental art?” I asked.
“Oh, yes.”
“Did he ever mention knowing other collectors?”
Chris was silent a moment, tapping a finger on my shoulder in thought. “No.”
“He never went to art sales, or museum openings?”
“I don’t think so, Vejay. He bought his stuff overseas. And when he sold it he was in a rush for money. Besides, he really wasn’t the arty type. Why are you asking that?”
“Mmm,” Rosa added her curiosity to Chris’s. Carlo, as usual, drove in silence.
“I’m just trying to figure Frank out. I remember you saying, Chris, that he hated to be cheated. He resented it more than most men.”
“That’s true.”
“And Ned told me he waited a year to get even with a guy who’d beaten him in the park.”
“Oh, no,” Rosa said.
“No, Ma, Frank was like that. You just didn’t see that side.”
“Oh, Chris, I just can’t—”
“Here you are, Vejay.” Carlo stopped the truck in my driveway. “Better get your kerosene lamp ready before the power goes out.”
“I would have forgotten. Thanks, Carlo.” I clambered down off Chris’s lap and out of the truck.
Amidst my thanks and their offers of meals when the power went out, they left. I started up my fifty-two steps, past my garage that had been broken into and not repaired, to do something about the Chinese plate that had probably caused Frank’s death.
CHAPTER 20
I PLANNED TO SPEND the rest of the evening puzzling out what I had learned, finding among those facts and speculations real evidence of Frank’s killer. I settled in the tub, turned my thoughts to the sewer project, and suddenly realized that I had come within half an inch of drowning. I’d fallen asleep in the tub. After that, I roused myself long enough to get into bed, stopping only to put the incriminating Chinese dish in a paper bag on top of my purse. I didn’t have a plan for it, but at least it was no longer in plain sight.
In the morning I raced from the bedroom to the kitchen, gulping coffee, while I brushed my “irregularly cut” hair and applied the minimum amount of make-up necessary to make me look alive. Rain hit the windows. The house was icy, but I was too rushed to do more than notice. My suspension from work was over, and as usual, I was nearly late.
Had I speculated about how Mr. Bobbs would greet my return, I would have guessed he’d be hidden away in his office, and a brief, very formal note would be in my message slot. And so it
was. I read it amidst the greetings of my fellow meter readers, their complaints about the mud, the rain, and the angry customers whose power had already gone out, and the tale of several old-time customers who knew the day their meters should have been read and were enraged at my not being there.
The route I had started on Tuesday was still not completed. I signed out truck twelve (with which I was very familiar) and drove the couple of blocks into town. The incriminating paper bag holding the Chinese plate was stashed under the seat. I still had no plans for it, but removing it from my house seemed a step in the right direction.
The rain, the mudslides, and the washed-out roads all over the hillside made me glad to be doing the flat, paved commercial section of the route. Afterwards there would be only one hillside area left. And that included Walucyk’s summer house.
On a normal day the town route would be pleasant. The meters would be accessible, the merchants friendly, and there would be no dogs likely to snarl at me. I’d walk along the street chatting with shoppers, enjoying the town. But with the river expected to flood at any moment, the street was deserted. Rain had speckled the meter covers, making it hard to see the dials inside. I couldn’t take the route book out of the truck as I usually did; I had to leave it inside and, between each reading, come back to record the usage. I dragged the truck from meter to meter. Ned Jacobs drove by, pausing to announce that he was headed to the supermarket. Madge Oombs stood in front of her shop, nailing the shutters down. The rain gave her an excuse, if she needed it, not to speak.
By eleven, this section of the route was done. I was starved. I bought a hamburger and a Coke and sat in the truck to do the thinking I’d planned for last night.
I had Frank’s financial records at home. He had not ordered supplies since he’d stolen the Chinese plates. Was he planning to leave town? Take his two hundred thousand dollars and disappear? If he did this, Frank would have been abandoning a good business, one he had apparently enjoyed. Why wouldn’t he have planned to hide the money and keep the Place? He could have had some great vacations on half of four hundred thousand dollars.
Or the full four hundred thousand dollars!
Had Frank planned to take the entire ransom and leave his partner with nothing but the sheriff? That would certainly explain why he was killed.
Or had he suspected that it would be too dangerous to stay in town? Had he figured that, given time, the theft of the plates, the ransom calls, the other burglaries, would all inevitably be traced back to him?
But why had he asked Skip Bollo about buying another restaurant? Obviously he had no intention of doing so. Did he want to convince Skip he was staying in town? There would have been only one reason for that.
Was Skip, then, Frank’s partner? Was it Skip that Frank planned to leave standing amidst the remains of the theft when the sheriff arrived? I couldn’t imagine Skip Bollo breaking into a house. And, assuming that the burglaries corresponded to Frank’s contacts with Patsy, they happened approximately once per month. I doubted whether either partner’s share would be more than a couple of hundred dollars. Frank’s must have barely paid Patsy.
Then, was Patsy the only person who truly benefited from the burglaries?
Suddenly, the two or three days necessary to confirm the agreement with Patsy became reasonable. It was not Frank, who was uninterested in preserving the area, who paid Patsy. Frank was the intermediary. His partner, someone concerned with delaying the sewer, was the one who sent money to Patsy.
Had the burglaries themselves been set up for the purpose of financing the sewer sabotage?
Besides Skip, who would benefit from delaying the sewer? Madge? Ned? The Fortimiglios? Either monetarily, or from the preservation of the area, all of them would have something to gain.
I sighed and finished my Coke.
Perhaps, if I looked at the problem from a more practical point … In planning the burglaries, who would know which houses to hit? Again, anyone. I needed to see Walucyk’s house to see how desirable it looked from the outside. If it was new, expensive, likely to contain fenceable goods, then it wouldn’t require any expertise to select it. Conversely then, if it was uninviting, the only way Frank’s partner would have been alerted to the treasure within was if he or she had already been inside the house.
I drove the truck through town and up the hillside road. The pavement had been narrowed to one lane by intermittent slides. I pulled the truck in between the mounds of dirt, waiting for oncoming vehicles to pass, and then went on. Parking at the top of the hill, I worked my way down, dragging the truck from house to house, coming back after each foray through a muddy drive or sodden yard. I saved Walucyk’s for last, so I wouldn’t have any more offended customers to complain that their meters had been overlooked.
From the outside, Walucyk’s house bore no resemblance to his luxurious San Francisco Victorian home. The yard was overgrown; it looked like Walucyk didn’t hire a gardener. The house itself was no bigger than mine, and the wood was painted green rather than stained and varnished like the newer and more expensive homes. Drapes covered the front window. From the street there was no way of telling what was inside. It was not a house that would catch a burglar’s eye.
I went around the back to the meter, which, as with many older homes, was on the porch. That was lucky for me—it meant I had a key.
I paused long enough outside the door to peer in, but nothing more than the meter and a folded deck chair was visible on the little porch. I let myself in and jotted down the usage figures.
No one who had not been inside the house would have known that there was anything valuable here. But who would have reason to be here? Walucyk said he did not socialize in Henderson. Nothing had been built, nothing repaired. He certainly hadn’t hired a local person to do yardwork. Had Madge Oombs made a sale or bought some minor piece of Walucyk’s collection? It was hard to imagine any one item that could grace both Walucyk’s home and Madge’s shop. Had Skip been through the house before Walucyk bought it and noted the display cases? Even if he had, he would not have known what Walucyk planned to keep in them. As for Ned Jacobs, or Paul, Patsy, or the Fortimiglios, I couldn’t imagine Walucyk bothering to speak to them, much less have them in his house.
There was nothing to do but go inside.
I tried my key in the lock on the door. I wasn’t surprised when it didn’t fit. We meter readers were bonded; PG&E went to a lot of trouble to assure customers their readers were honest. But that did not inspire many people into giving us a key to their homes. Meters were usually on porches, not in bedrooms.
If I intended to see the inside of Walucyk’s house, I’d have to break in. With a start, I realized how naturally the thought came to me—me, who only a week before had been a law-abiding woman.
Pushing self-assessment aside, I stared at the back door. It had a two-foot square window, big enough for me to hoist myself through. But the moment I’d break the glass, alarms would ring from here to Guerneville.
Gusts of wind shook the flimsy walls of the porch; the glass in the outside door rattled. The sky was dark as dusk though it was still afternoon. There were no squares of yellow in the distance, no warm lights showing through the trees. No lights were on in the other houses.
I looked closer at Walucyk’s electricity meter; the five dials stared back. All five were motionless. Walucyk said he had display cases inside. If he visited on weekends he would have left his refrigerator on. It would need power. His meter dials should have been moving. I now wished that I had read the other meters on the hillside more carefully. Were they running, or was the power off on this side of town? Or all over town?
If Walucyk’s power was off, the alarm system would be dead. I’d have to chance it. Picking up the deck chair, I broke the window.
There was no bell, no loud buzzing, nothing here to suggest the alarm had sounded. But still, it could be one of those that alerted only the sheriff.
Quickly, I hoisted myself through the window and into the k
itchen. To my right was the dining room—small, but expensively decorated in old rough oak and thick oriental carpets.
I hurried into the living room. It was similar to the room I’d seen in Walucyk’s Victorian. Being much smaller, it had only one oriental carpet, one uncomfortable-looking brocade sofa, two matching chairs, and three display cases (one on the front wall and two on the interior wall across from it).
The case on the front wall, the one that had housed the Chinese plates, was empty, the scratches from its forced entry still visible.
I stood absolutely still and listened, but there was no noise outside other than the sound of trees scraping against the house and the rain pelting the windows. No sirens, no tires squealing.
Across from the empty display case, on the interior wall, was a second case that held a group of small silk Chinese screens. The case had not been touched. And apparently Walucyk had not felt it worthwhile to remove the collection after the theft of the plates.
The third and last case contained Japanese netsukes of animals and minuscule people. I stooped over, surveying the collection: an ivory puppy wrapped around a ball, the whole thing no more than two inches tall; a pile of monkeys with tails and legs intertwined. The little figures were grouped casually, but one stood apart. It was a netsuke of three old women standing back to back, and one of the women had gold teeth. Frank’s netsuke! The netsuke he sold for a tenth of its value!
Frank, who hated to be taken, had been taken by Walucyk.
I could picture Frank selling the netsuke to Walucyk and imagine Walucyk’s smug pleasure in telling Frank its true value. Frank had waited a year to get even with the man in the park. It took him more than two years to get back at Walucyk.
I realized now that I had been viewing the entire burglary scheme backwards. Frank and his partner did not come across the plates in the course of housebreaking. It was the other way around. Frank’s need for revenge prompted the burglaries.
Frank must have sold the netsuke to Walucyk in San Francisco. I could picture Walucyk telling Frank about his weekend house, just as he told me. I could imagine him showing Frank his other collections, those collections he was so proud of that he insisted that I, whom he assumed to be a thief, view them. Frank would have seen the Chinese plates there. And there, he would have sworn to get revenge.
