The Rotten Rancher
A Nick Williams Mystery
Book 16
By Frank W. Butterfield
Nick Williams Mysteries
The Unexpected Heiress
The Amorous Attorney
The Sartorial Senator
The Laconic Lumberjack
The Perplexed Pumpkin
The Savage Son
The Mangled Mobster
The Iniquitous Investigator
The Voluptuous Vixen
The Timid Traitor
The Sodden Sailor
The Excluded Exile
The Paradoxical Parent
The Pitiful Player
The Childish Churl
The Rotten Rancher
Nick & Carter Stories
An Enchanted Beginning
Golden Gate Love Stories
The One He Waited For
Their Own Hidden Island
© 2017 by Frank W. Butterfield. All rights reserved.
No part of this story may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without express written permission of the copyright holder.
This book contains explicit language and suggestive situations.
This is a work of fiction that refers to historical figures, locales, and events, along with many completely fictional ones. The primary characters are utterly fictional and do not resemble anyone that I have ever met or known of.
Cover image licensed under copyright Prometeus / 123RF Stock Photo
To contact the author, visit nickwilliamspi.com.
NW16-K-20171113
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Contents
Foreword
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Epilogue
Author's Note
Acknowledgments
Historical Notes
More Information
Rotten
ˈrä-tᵊn
1. Morally corrupt
Rancher
ˈran-chər
1. One who owns or works a large farm for raising horses, beef cattle, or sheep
Foreword
In these books, I depend upon one or more of the characters to explain terms and names that modern readers might not quite understand, given that time has changed their meanings or that their usefulness has long ago expired.
However, in the case of the name of the road that winds south along the coast from Carmel to San Simeon, when I asked for a show of hands as to who might want to mention something about its common name in 1955, no one volunteered.
So, it falls upon me to insert a foreword here about the name that locals in the area of the Big Sur in 1955 used to refer to what is now officially numbered as State Route 1 or SR 1, officially named Cabrillo Highway (as of 1964), and commonly called California Highway 1, Highway 1, Route 1, the coast highway, or, simply, 1.
Those from the Southland will, from time to time, attempt to call it The Pacific Coast Highway or The PCH, believing that it's just a few miles beyond the golden shores of their beloved Malibu. They are swiftly, but gently, rebuked by their friends from the north. For sanity's sake, I will quickly move past that ancient enmity and get to the point at hand.
The portion of State Route 1 that runs from Carmel in the north to San Simeon in the south was, thanks to the New Deal, completed by 1937. In recognition of the role that the President had played in making the funds possible, the highway was still commonly known as Roosevelt Highway in 1955.
This is not to be confused with the Roosevelt Highway of the Southland, a name no longer in use for a segment of the PCH (State Route 1) in Los Angeles County, and honoring Theodore Roosevelt rather than Franklin, his distant cousin.
When Nick and Carter are traveling State Route 1 north of Carmel, Nick will refer to it in his narration as Highway 1. When they are motoring along the rugged coastline of Big Sur, he will refer to it as Roosevelt Highway.
Thank you for your attention to this very important matters. Happy reading and happy travels!
Chapter 1
1198 Sacramento Street
San Francisco, Cal.
Friday, November 11, 1955
Half past 9 in the morning
Gustav, our valet and butler, knocked on the bedroom door and then opened it a crack, peering in to see if it was safe to enter.
"Yeah?" I asked as I brushed my hair.
"Mrs. Hughes just call and say that your trunk arrive at house."
I said, "The house." All of our staff were Czechoslovakian. They all spoke English well enough. But they'd recently asked us to tell them whenever we heard something that needed correction. That wasn't something either Carter, my tall, muscled ex-fireman of a husband, or I would have done on our own but we were happy to oblige.
"The house," repeated Gustav with a nod.
"Mrs. Hughes just called," added Carter who had just finished brushing his teeth in the bathroom and was walking into the bedroom with a bath towel wrapped around his waist. "She called. That's the past tense." Carter knew his grammar much better than me. So, I let him explain why. I never tried to do the same since I hadn't finished high school. I'd dropped out from the local prep school, St. Ignatius, before I could get my diploma.
Gustav repeated, "Mrs. Hughes called. She say..." He stopped. "She said the trunk arrive—" He paused again and started over. "Mrs. Hughes called. She said the trunk arrived at the house."
Carter, who by then had pulled on his BVDs and a pair of brown tweed wool trousers, slapped Gustav on the back and said, "You got it, son." He grabbed a white undershirt from the bureau and pulled it over his head.
Gustav blushed and nodded. "Thank you, Mr. Carter."
"Hey," I said as I leaned over and tied my left shoe. "I helped you with the house."
Gustav replied, "Yes. Thank you, Mr. Nick." He paused for a moment, thinking. "Are you now ready to take your journey to the south?"
Both of us laughed. Gustav looked from Carter to me and back again. "This not correct?"
"Is this not correct?" Carter said. He smiled. "It's correct. It just sounds strange."
"How—" Gustav pursed his lips. "How do you say?"
Carter walked over to the wardrobe and pulled a heavy wool shirt in a dark blue checkered pattern off a hangar. As he put on the shirt, he said, "Are you ready to go?"
Gustav blinked for a moment. "Yes, I see. You know your journey is to the south."
I looked over at Carter who was buttoning his shirt. "Yes. And I'm looking forward to it." Having tied my shoes, I stood and adjusted my own red checkered wool shirt. "What are you and Ferdinand going to do while we're gone?" That was Gustav's lover. They'd known each other from before escaping Czechoslovakia a few years earlier.
"The sister of Ferdinand's mother arrive on Sunday from France. We will take her to see all the pleasures of the City." He sm
iled triumphantly.
I looked over at Carter who started to open his mouth and then closed it. There was only so much grammar correction the kid could take before he clammed up. I said, "That sounds good. Where will you be taking Ferdinand's aunt?"
Gustav blushed for a moment. "We shall take his aunt to the beach and to the park. We shall drive across the bridge to see the very tall trees. And we shall take her to the Top of the Mark."
Carter and I both nodded. I said, "If you want to take her on the bay, just let Captain O'Reilly know and, if the weather is good, he'll be happy to go out on The Flirtatious Captain." That was our yacht. It still seemed ridiculous that we had one, but we did and it was always a kick to go out and see the City from the water and sail under the Golden Gate Bridge.
Gustav nodded with a smile. "Thank you, Mr. Nick."
I smiled and said, "You're welcome. How about breakfast?"
. . .
After breakfast, Carter and I headed down to the garage in the basement of our big pile of rocks. Three cars occupied the parking area: my '54 Buick Roadmaster, Carter's '54 Mercury Monterey, and Carter's new baby, a brand-new '55 Sunbeam Alpine. Rumor was it had been the last to be sold in the U.S. before Sunbeam had stopped selling the Alpine model.
Carter had bought it only the week before. It was a small job with a softcover convertible top that snapped in place. It was folded up and put away in the trunk. The exterior was the same blue and the interior was the same vanilla as the car Grace Kelly had raced over the hills in To Catch A Thief.
We'd finally seen the movie about a month earlier and Carter had decided to look into buying one. It had been hard for him to find a sports car he liked which could also fit his big 6'4" frame. Cary Grant, who stood a little over six feet, seemed to fit in the passenger seat just fine. When Carter went to test-drive the car, he'd been able to slide right in under the wheel. However, he'd soon discovered he had to point his knees away from the steering column, otherwise his thickly-muscled thighs made it hard to turn the wheel.
We'd been out in the thing on the previous Monday for a run up to the top of Twin Peaks. I wasn't that impressed. The car seemed underpowered. Carter had to do a fair amount of downshifting to make it up the side of the hill. He assured me, however, that once we were on the open road, it would be a smooth ride. It was heavy for its size and, I had to admit, held the curves nicely as we had driven back down the hill.
As I put a couple of valises in the trunk, Carter walked over and hit the button that opened the garage door. The weather was fine but it was a little on the chilly side. We were both dressed for it, including wearing wool scarves we'd picked up in the spring when we'd been in Vermont for a few days.
I hopped in the passenger side as Carter slid under the wheel. He fired up the ignition and let it warm up a little. Putting his right hand on my left leg, he said, "I've got the whole drive down memorized."
I nodded. "As many twists and turns as you could find?"
He grinned and put the engine in reverse. "You bet."
. . .
Carter's internal map took us down California to Van Ness, where he made a left. We followed that road down to Market and made a right. Driving through our old neighborhood of Eureka Valley, we followed Market until it became Portola as it headed up the hill. Going up and around the Twin Peaks, Carter made a left on O'Shaunessy. That twisting road led us down into Glen Canyon and into the fragrance of the eucalyptus trees populating the park below. At the bottom of the hill, Bosworth Street picked up where O'Shaunessy ended. Making a quick right at Diamond, Carter followed that across Monterey Boulevard to San Jose Avenue where he made a right. We continued down to Alemany where Carter made another right. However, instead of following the curve where Alemany became the coast-hugging Highway 1, Carter made a left at Skyline Boulevard.
Neither of us had said much of anything as we'd driven across town. The day was beautiful and the sky was mostly clear. I'd enjoyed sitting in the car and watching the City pass by. As Carter downshifted his way up Skyline, I noticed the fog sitting about half a mile offshore. It looked thick and seemed to go on for miles and miles down the coastline. The weather forecast for the weekend had been cool but sunny. I suddenly realized we'd looked at the San Francisco weather. Who knew what we'd find a hundred or so miles south? We were headed just past Carmel, where my father owned a house that overlooked the ocean.
. . .
We followed Skyline to where it turned and then descended down into Half Moon Bay. We were both quiet the whole way. When Carter didn't have his hand on the gear shift that rose up out of the floor, it was in mine. I liked driving that way: holding hands and watching the world go by.
Being the same style and color as the car in the movie, our ride got a lot of looks. As we drove through Half Moon Bay, a couple of wiseacres standing on a street corner asked us about Grace Kelly and if we'd stolen the car from her.
Once we were on Highway 1 and heading south of Half Moon Bay, Carter opened the throttle up. On a flat surface that was reasonably straight, the car zoomed from a dawdling 30 to nearly 65 in just a few seconds. He slowed down as we came into a turn. I gripped the handle under the glove compartment as he took the curve a little too fast for my comfort. But the Sunbeam gripped the road tightly and we popped neatly into the next straightaway and kept zooming along.
. . .
It was nearly noon when we saw a sign that Watsonville was the next town along the highway. I said, "I'm hungry," just as we saw a little drive-in joint called, "Robert's Roadside Grill."
Carter made a quick left and pulled into one of the spots out front. He hit the horn twice and then said, "We made good time."
I nodded. "I think it's about ninety miles from the City to here."
"Sounds right."
Right then, a gal of about 21 walked up. Her eyes were at half-mast and she was chewing gum. "Menu?" She handed one to Carter without waiting for him to answer. "Soda pop?"
I said, "Two bottles of Coke. With straws."
"Got it." She ambled off and walked up to the counter window. She called out, "Two bottle Cokes," and then leaned one hip against the shiny metal counter and blew a bubble.
"The usual?" asked Carter.
I nodded. "Sure." I looked up at the sky and felt the damp of the breeze coming in off the ocean.
Right then, a blue convertible Chrysler Imperial pulled up on Carter's side of the car. The driver, a man and the only occupant, peered over at us and grinned. He was about 45, blond, and not bad looking but not handsome. He asked, "Got bit by the Sunbeam bug, didja?"
Carter nodded and simply replied, "Yep," which was quiet for him.
The man asked, "You look like a big guy. Can you fit in that little tin can?"
Carter nodded again. "Sure. No problem."
Right then the gal returned with our two bottles of Coke, each with a straw bobbing inside. After handing them over, she asked, "Ready to order?" Pulling a pencil out from behind her ear and reaching for a pad from her apron, she blew another bubble and popped it.
Carter said, "We'll both have the same thing. Hamburger sandwich and french fries."
She nodded, took the menu Carter was offering, and asked, "Here or to go?"
Before Carter could answer, I said, "To go and extra napkins."
She nodded, turned around, and asked the man in the Imperial, "Menu?"
. . .
Once we had our slightly oily bag of food and the waitress had a five, no change, Carter started up the car and pulled out of the parking lot as if the cops were closing in and we needed to make a fast getaway.
In the eight minutes it had taken the cook to put together our order, we'd been barraged with a litany of reasons why Sunbeams, and sports cars in general, were dangerous and shouldn't be allowed on any American road. They were fine for England and Europe but not for the U.S. The man had gone on and on, barely taking time to breathe. I was glad I'd had the foresight to ask for our food to go.
As I held t
he bag on the floor, Carter drove through the picturesque town of Watsonville. Our friend, Carlo Martinelli, who lived down in L.A., was from there. His father owned a grocery store next door to the Fox Theatre on the main drag. Sure enough, as we passed Beach Street, I could see the Fox marquee and a grocer's on the left, just before the theater, with a green awning and the family name above that. If I remembered a detail like that from a story Martinelli had told us almost a year earlier, I knew Carter would definitely remember it. As we approached the store, he made a quick left and pulled into a space right in front of the store.
Since it was the 11th, and Veteran's Day, I wondered if the place would be open. Leaving the hamburgers in the car, we both got out. Neither of us had talked about stopping at the store. But Carter had done just that and I was following his lead.
I looked at my watch and saw that it was a quarter until 1. Off in the distance, I could hear a band playing "Stars And Stripes Forever." I wondered if the town would be having a parade or some sort of celebration.
Carter moved across the sidewalk and pushed his way into the store. I followed him inside and had a look around. There were several shoppers, all women, milling around with baskets or webbed bags under their arms. Most appeared to be Italian, but not all. Behind the rows of canned goods, I could smell a fish counter in the back somewhere. Carter, who could see over the rows of shelves, stopped and looked around. He found his quarry and slowly made his way to the back of the store. I wondered what he was up to but followed him nonetheless.
At the far left side of the store stood a cheese counter. A slightly stooped man of about 55 was slicing a thick wedge off a big wheel of cheese. He had thinning black hair, was portly, and looked just like his son. They had the same eyes and the same smile.
"You want I should give you a bite of this, Mrs. Amaro?"
The woman replied, "No, thank you, Mr. Martinelli. I just had a sandwich before coming in before you close for the day."
Mr. Martinelli laughed as he wrapped the cheese in paper. "I always like it when my customers come in hungry. They buy more."
Mrs. Amaro, who was maybe 25, giggled. "That's why I eat before I come in. Otherwise, I would spend all of Paul's paycheck and then I'd been in for it."
The Rotten Rancher (A Nick Williams Mystery Book 16) Page 1
