by Susan Dunlap
Cesspools and septic tanks were elements of rusticity I hadn’t been prepared for when I had moved here from San Francisco. But I learned all too quickly. Cesspools were wooden boxes; septic tanks were larger cement cylinders with one or two compartments. Both took care of the solid material. The liquid was carried out of them and into the ground by underground fingers of gravel called leach lines. Initially, the water drained only to the ends of the leach lines, but over the years the force of the water or the vagaries of the soil and rock changed or extended the flow till it came to a wall, or a stream—or in this case, Michelle Davidson’s garage.
“What Michelle has leaking into her garage isn’t pure sewage, but it’s not something she would want next to her car window either, is it?” I asked.
“Well, no. I tried to be reasonable. It’s not a disaster. I offered to come in and scoop up the mess. I would have done that. But, well, you know Michelle.”
“How did she react?”
“Like she always does. You can imagine the magnitude she’s blown it into, can’t you? Last night’s tirade was standard. She’s gotten so bad that I never go out without checking to see if she’s there. I have to park my car down the street, and when I leave the house, I use the back door and skirt around behind the people on the far side and down through their property.”
“Wouldn’t it be easier to deal with the cesspool?”
He put a hand on my shoulder. “You’d think, but the thing is—I’ve explained this to Michelle, but you know how she is—the sewer will be in shortly. You can see the hole right in front of my garage, so even if I wanted to park there I couldn’t. Anyway, when the sewer is in, there will be a hook-up charge.”
I nodded. I knew that only too well.
“And the question is, how much will it cost, right? It’s based on how many people hook in, right? If it’s reasonable, I’ll hook in. If not, I’ll get a septic tank. But, as I’ve told Michelle over and over, I’m not going to get a septic tank now if there’s a chance I’ll hook into the sewer in a month. That’s reasonable, isn’t it?”
I nodded again.
He gave my shoulder a squeeze and released it, an affectation I found increasingly irritating. “Tell that to Michelle,” he said. “She’s called the county; she called Mosquito Abatement. Environmental Health sent a man out. She called the county again. They called me. You know Michelle; when she gets on a jag like this she never lets go.” He took another step into the hallway. “I’ll tell you what I think, Vejay. I think Craig Davidson spends too much time at his nursery and Michelle just doesn’t have enough to do with her time.”
I was tempted to comment that no amount of work or time spent on hobbies would make sewage leaking into your garage acceptable. Instead, I asked, “Do you have any idea, anything at all, about where she might be?”
“Maybe she went off with the Environmental Health man.” He laughed. “No. I don’t want to say anything out of line. But Michelle is a very attractive girl. She knows it, too. She’s particularly attractive if she doesn’t open her mouth. To a guy in a bar…well, you know what I mean.” He smiled conspiratorially. “Doesn’t dress like a nun, either, up there on her deck railing in a leotard.”
That railing was two and a half feet above the deck. From it the drop to the ground was anywhere from ten to twenty-five feet. “What was she doing up there?”
He shrugged. “Walking. Sometimes backwards. One time she did a back roll. She knows how to show off her best features, if you know what I mean.”
Ignoring that observation, I asked, “Do you think your wife might have talked to Michelle recently?”
Ward glanced toward the living room. “My guests,” he said in way of explanation. “Jenny? I doubt it. You probably don’t know Jenny.”
“No, I don’t think so.” I might have seen her or spoken to her, but I didn’t connect any particular woman to this house.
“She does those little sketches on the sidewalk downtown. You know, the souvenir pictures the summer people buy.”
“Oh yes, I have seen her there. She’s very good.”
He nodded absently. “She may know something about Michelle, but I doubt it. She doesn’t like to be bothered, particularly by Michelle. But you can ask her.”
“Why particularly by Michelle?”
He looked again toward the living room. “My guests…I really can’t leave them any longer, you understand. They’re anxious to get out to the site.”
“But why particularly Michelle?”
He shrugged. “Jenny doesn’t have much patience.”
That didn’t answer my question, but I couldn’t ask again. Instead, I asked to use his phone.
“Certainly,” he said with clear relief. “Right back in the bedroom. Let yourself out when you’re through.” He patted my shoulder again—I restrained comment, again—and he hurried back to the living room.
I sat on the bed, pulled the phone book out from under the phone, and looked up the number for Craig’s nursery. Sitting there with my finger marking it, I wondered why Ward’s wife found Michelle especially offensive. It didn’t sound like she was a protagonist in the cesspool dispute. Was the problem something entirely different? Was it Michelle’s not dressing like a nun, as Ward put it? Did she suspect Ward’s wandering hands had found their way to Michelle’s body?
Outside the window, on the porch, was a tall man with light curly hair leaning against the railing, staring down thoughtfully into the underbrush. Was he another of Ward McElvey’s prospects? Or perhaps the neighbor whose yard Ward cut through? He looked familiar, or almost familiar. But I saw so many people in my work that I recognized people I didn’t really know.
Changing my mind about calling Michelle’s husband now, I put the phone book back. It was nearly two o’clock. Lunch first, then Craig.
Ward and the Underwoods were still in the living room. I caught his eye and waved as I left.
Stepping from the house into the sunlight was like walking into a sauna. I forced myself to hurry down the stairs, and along the street. As I passed the next house, I noted a red AMC Pacer with license plates saying MCELVEY.
It wasn’t till I was halfway down the hill that I realized who the man outside Ward McElvey’s reminded me of—the man with Michelle in the photo I’d found between the pages of her yearbook.
CHAPTER 3
EVEN IN THE SHADE OF the eucalyptus trees it was much too hot. My polyester uniform slacks were like sweat pants. My shirt clung to my back. I was only pleased that it was just two blocks into town.
Michelle Davidson’s street, Half Hill Road, ran high above and parallel to the river. It ended at Zeus Lane, so named because it rose straight up to the gods, or viewed from the top, steeply down toward town. The one advantage of being dressed in work clothes was that my boots were made for clambering up driveways and through underbrush to the obscure places builders chose to put meters. Walking down a slope was child’s play.
As I skirted from shady spot to shady spot I wondered who the man behind Ward McElvey’s house, the man in Michelle’s picture, was. More to the point, what was he doing next to Michelle’s house the day after her disappearance? Had she gone off with him and then sent him back for her clothes? If so, why was he sitting on Ward’s porch instead of walking in Michelle’s door? Surely she would have given him the key. But perhaps I had caught him while he was waiting to make sure the house was empty. I hadn’t wanted to run into Michelle inside her house. How much more would her lover do to avoid a confrontation with Craig there?
But that was speculation. First I needed to find out who the man was. And even before that I needed lunch. I hurried on down to North Bank Road and along the sidewalk toward the café.
One of the things I had gained since becoming a meter reader was an enormous appetite. I walked more in a week now than I had in a year as an account executive in San Francisco. If I ever stopped reading meters, I’d either have to go on a hunger strike or seek work with the circus. But for now I just
hoped it was too hot for tourists to think of food.
I was wrong. The café was jammed. Every stool at the counter was taken, every table crowded, and there was a line waiting to get in. In disgust I stomped across the street to Fischer’s Ice Cream and joined the line there. The Fischers had run the shop for years and they moved the line through with a speed any bank would have envied. There were five flavors a day and by the time you reached the front of the line, you were expected to have your choice ready. Mine was strawberry, double-scoop. It would do for an appetizer.
Cone in hand, I wandered along the sidewalk, skirting toddlers, jumping back to avoid a boy in cutoffs who was backing toward my cone. At the far end of the sidewalk was a beach umbrella, and under it, I made out as I neared, was a woman sketching. Presumably, she was Jenny McElvey.
I had seen her there before, but I had never taken the time to look closely at her work. Today the subject of that work, a man in his early twenties, sat on a folding chair, staring tensely to one side of Jenny. He looked edgy and self-conscious, as if he were sitting there on a bet. The corners of his mouth seemed about to break into a nervous grin. I glanced from him to the sketch. Nearly done, it approximated his features but missed the singular qualities that would have transformed it from a likeness of a pale young man into a portrait of this particular one. Still, there was a certain flair to it, perhaps the angle of the head, or the thick definite strokes that seemed fitting for a charcoal sketch acquired while on vacation.
I moved around behind the man so I could watch Jenny. She looked to be a little younger than I, probably about thirty. Her brown hair was drawn back at the neck, folded over and clasped up on her head, so that none of it hung against her neck. Her face was bare of any makeup. Her eyebrows were thick and seemed to have grown randomly. But her eyes, large and dark brown, stared fiercely at the paper, moving only briefly to view the subject.
Abruptly she put down the charcoal, and without an appraising glance, handed the paper to the young man. She looked exhausted, like a psychic recently revived from a trance.
I glanced at the crowd, expecting the man’s friends to push forward to get their money’s worth of amusement, but no one elbowed in. The crowd as a whole moved closer and their murmurs, of approval bubbled up. The man himself gave the drawing all the careful evaluation that Jenny had not. Finally, he smiled, and returned it to her to be wrapped. The crowd stood a minute or so, apparently waiting to see if another subject would take his place. When none did, individuals and small groups wandered off. The man stepped up to Jenny, extricated a bill from his wallet, and accepted the drawing.
A couple walked up, glanced at me, and moved on.
“Are you trying to decide?” Jenny asked me.
“No, actually, I’m looking for your neighbor, Michelle Davidson.”
“She’s not here.” Jenny adjusted the sketch paper in its clasp. Clearly, to her the subject was closed. She wasn’t even curious as to why I couldn’t find Michelle or why I was bringing my problem to her.
“I’ve been looking for her since last night. I talked to your husband.” I hesitated, then decided to plunge in. “He said you particularly disliked her.”
“And so you figure I’ll know where she is?” There was a mixture of irony and irritation in her voice.
“Actually, I thought you might be pretty straightforward.”
She fingered the charcoal. “Straightforward is that you’re hurting my business. People don’t come to watch me talk, they’re attracted by seeing me draw. Either you want a picture, or leave the space for someone else.”
Again, I hesitated. I hated to invest more than time in Michelle’s whereabouts. But I did like the idea of having my picture done, so I said, “Let me finish my cone, and then do a sketch of me. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“But while I’m eating answer my questions.”
“An eight-dollar interrogation?” she said with the barest hint of amusement.
“Only partly. It will be a treat for me to have the picture. I remember watching artists doing sketches and caricatures when I was a kid. I always wanted one, but it was a lot of money then.”
Jenny smiled tentatively. It didn’t seem like a normal expression for her. “Okay then, ask your questions, but you’ve got to keep licking that cone.”
I sat in the chair. “Do you have any idea where Michelle could be? Father Calloway of St. Agnes’ dropped her in town last night. I can’t find out what happened after that.”
Jenny leaned back in her chair. She eyed a couple walking by, then forced her attention back to me. “I haven’t seen Michelle in days. I’ve been in Santa Rosa getting supplies. This is my busiest time. I do more work during Bohemian Week than the rest of the season combined. I have to make sure I have everything I need. I can’t take a day off to run to Santa Rosa and pick up charcoal.”
I looked at the sketch pad, the charcoal, the floodlight for evening work lying next to the easel. “It took you more than one trip to get your supplies?” I asked in amazement.
“Are you an artist? Do you know what decisions I have to make or how many places I have to go to get the best?”
I decided not to deal with that. “When was the last time you saw Michelle?”
She rubbed a finger along a piece of charcoal. “Look, the woman lives next door. She’s part of the landscape. I can’t remember when she was out on her deck, doing her Olga Korbut number on the railing. Like Ward was kind enough to tell you, Michelle and I are not friends.”
I had the feeling that Jenny McElvey was on the verge of deciding that an empty chair was preferable to me. “Your husband Ward was talking to Michelle last night, about the cesspool.” I paused, but she didn’t react to that. “He was as helpful as he could be, but I obviously caught him at a time when he had a lot to do.”
“I’m sure,” she said with the same bitterness she’d had for Michelle. “Look, this is the most important time of the year for me. If anyone ever discovers me as an artist tucked away in the country it will happen during Bohemian Week when all the bigshots and reporters and people with taste and influence are here. Ward knows that. So what does he do? Does he try to make things easier for me? Does he offer to take my part-time job at the nursery? No. What he does is invite a pair of total strangers for the weekend. They came yesterday. And they’re staying till Sunday night. He wants the house clean; he wants me to go to dinner with them. He’s angry that I won’t stay home and amuse them. He’s angry!” She was shaking.
I sat, amazed by the vehemence of her outburst.
A group of four paused, looking from Jenny to me and back to her. Then, seeing that no sketch was in progress, they moved on.
“I guess Michelle’s anti-hookers’ group won’t help your business, or anyone else’s either,” I said.
It was a moment before Jenny answered. She seemed to be recovering from her outburst. When she did speak, her tone was almost indifferent. “It won’t affect my business. It’s a silly little group, headed by a silly young woman. It’s not going to impress the hookers or their customers. Michelle just wants to get her picture in the paper.”
In spite of her bitterness toward Ward, I still wondered if her reaction to Michelle was based on jealousy. I asked, “Why do you dislike Michelle?”
She took a moment before answering. “I don’t really dislike her, because I don’t really know her. But I find her actions a constant nuisance. Ask anyone who lives near her, they’ll know what I mean. Right now we have a sewer hole blocking our garage. That’s because Michelle kept bugging the city council to keep on the sewer company. If she had let things run their course it wouldn’t have gotten there till fall when the town wasn’t so mobbed and we wouldn’t have tourists driving up the street, slamming on their brakes at the hole, and then trying to turn around. We’ve almost had our car hit three or four times.”
“Surely that’s not the only reason.”
“No, it’s just the latest. I’ve known Michelle since she
was a child. She’s four years younger than I am. When she was in high school my brother Ross took her out from time to time. He was already out of school—a big man. He’d invite her somewhere when the spirit moved him, then he’d forget about her. And she’d come over to the house looking for him. I sort of felt sorry for her—it was lousy of Ross—but at the same time she was such a pest. She was a very popular girl, and she just couldn’t accept that someone she wanted didn’t care about her.”
Thinking of the picture inside Michelle’s yearbook, I asked, “What does Ross look like?”
“I don’t know.”
“Ross—your brother.”
“I said I don’t know. I haven’t seen him in eight years, since my father died. He left town that day. My father had a heart attack. He had it because he was shoveling a hole and Ross was standing by watching him work—and there you have Ross’s character in a nutshell.” She swallowed. “Ross didn’t even bother to come to the hospital. Ward had to ride in the ambulance with my father. And when I looked for Ross to drive me there, he was gone. He just left.”
“Where is he now?”
“I don’t know. He lived in San Francisco, off some woman. That was years ago. He hasn’t come back. I wouldn’t see him if he did.” She looked down at the charcoal and when she looked at me again she seemed to be in control. “I’m sure I sound spiteful but if you knew Ross you wouldn’t be surprised. He came and went as he pleased. But there was always a job for him with my father. My father kept thinking it would work out, that Ross would shape up and take over the business, like a son should. It was lucky for him that he had Ward to get some work done. Ross was too busy with himself. He had to go to Mexico, or he had to picket at the Grove, or ride his motorcycle. He was always too busy to take customers around. Ward had to do that. Or my father. It’s no wonder he had a heart attack.”
I waited a moment before asking, “When you saw him last, was Ross tall with sandy hair?”
She nodded.
“There’s a snapshot Michelle has of herself and a tall sandy-haired man holding a picket sign…”
