Smiling kindly, the older man handed her the wrapped wedge of cheese and said, "Well, we can't have that. Have a good weekend and I'll see you next week."
The woman put the package in her basket and nodded. "Yes. Are you going to see the band playing in the park before the parade starts?"
He nodded and looked at his watch. "Yes. But first I gotta get everyone here taken care of."
As the woman walked over to the cash register, Mr. Martinelli looked up at Carter and asked with a smile, "Yes, sir?"
"Can I get about half a pound of Swiss cheese sliced for sandwiches?" asked Carter. I knew there would be plenty of food for us at the house when we got there. But I also knew my husband well enough to know he had a plan.
"Sure," replied Mr. Martinelli as he switched out wheels of cheese from the case. "Anything else?"
"That's all," said Carter, stretching the last word into at least three syllables. He was from South Georgia. I could always hear the drawl in his voice but sometimes, and that was one of those times, he made it stronger.
Mr. Martinelli grinned. "Where you from?" he asked as he used a big knife to slice off a wedge of cheese.
Carter replied, "Albinny, Georgia." The name of the town was Albany but he used the pronunciation he'd grown up hearing.
"How is it you come to Watsonville?"
Grinning, Carter said, "I live in San Francisco and am driving down to Big Sur."
"Nice drive. You spending the weekend down there?"
"Yes, sir."
"I hear the fog is supposed to be thick as pea soup starting tonight. You see that bank sitting off the coast as you drove down?" He was slicing each piece, one at a time, instead of using an electric slicer.
"Yes, sir. I sure did."
"You be careful down there. The fog isn't like it is in the City. Gets real thick and just hangs there. I once tried to drive down to San Luis Obispo to visit my sister in a fog like that. Almost drove off a cliff."
Carter said, "Speaking of family, I happen to know a relative of yours."
Mr. Martinelli, who was weighing the pieces he'd already sliced, looked up at Carter and asked, "That so?"
"Yes, sir."
The man seemed to suddenly see me. He frowned for a moment and then looked back at Carter. Sighing heavily, he pulled the cheese off the scale and quickly wrapped it up. Handing it over to Carter, he said, "No charge. And get outta my store and don't ever come back."
Carter took the package and quietly said, "He's doing fine. You'd be proud of him."
Shaking his head as the tears began to run down his cheeks, the man said, "I got one son and he works down at the hardware store, and I don't wanna see you or talk to you." He looked at me. "Either of you. You think I don't know who you are?"
I realized the store was quiet and no one was talking. I pulled on Carter's sleeve and said, "Let's go."
We walked out with a dozen pair of eyes watching us and made our way out the front door and over to the car. As we got in, a woman ran out of the store and called to Carter. "Wait, please."
We both got back out of the car and met the woman at the curb. She looked older than the man, had gray hair, and was thick around the middle. She pulled her blue sweater in tightly with her left hand and asked, "You know my Carlo?"
Carter nodded. "Yes, ma'am. I worked with him at the fire station. And now he works for us."
She looked from Carter to me and back. "Is he happy?"
Without waiting for Carter to answer, I said, "Yes, ma'am. He's very happy. And he's working for us as a private investigator in L.A."
She took out a handkerchief and wiped both eyes. After quickly blowing her nose, she said, "His brother, Franco, he runs the hardware store down the block. Will you go talk to him? Tell him I tell you to give my Carlo's address. I wanna write him. Will you tell him?"
We both nodded.
She looked up at Carter. "You promise me that he is happy?"
"Yes, ma'am. I promise."
"He is in love, maybe?"
"Yes, ma'am. Very much."
She sighed. "I don't care what my husband say. Love is love. Tell my Carlo I said this, will you?"
We both nodded as Carter said, "Yes, ma'am, we will."
. . .
"Sorry, but we're closing for the afternoon because of the parade." That was a blond kid of about 25 who was wearing a kind of green uniform. He had the door opened just enough to be able to talk but it was on a chain.
Carter said, "Will you tell Franco Martinelli that I have a message for him from his brother?"
"His brother? Carlo?"
We both nodded.
He frowned at us and said, "Huh. Stay there. I'll tell him." Pulling the door closed, he locked it and moved away.
As we stood there, a flood of people were making their way to a park in the distance where the band was playing, "The Washington Post March." I could see a group of men in their 50s, all dressed in uniforms from the first world war, walking along the sidewalk across from where we stood. They made the right and followed the rest of the crowd towards the park.
Looking up at Carter, I asked, "Did you plan this?"
He shook his head, looking a little sheepish. "Nope. I saw the store and the parking space and decided to pull in. Maybe we should have kept on going."
"No. I think Mrs. Martinelli will be grateful to finally hear from her son. Remember how he told us that his letters to her were all being returned unopened?"
Carter nodded. "Yeah."
Right at that moment, I heard the door unlock behind us. I turned and saw an older, taller, and leaner version of Carlo Martinelli. As he closed the door behind him, the kid locked it. Looking at Carter, he asked, "You know Carlo?"
"Yeah. We're friends of his."
The man looked down at me and nodded. "I know you from the papers. You're the reason he got fired back in 1953, right?"
I nodded. "Yeah."
He pursed his lips. "But I hear you made up for it."
I shrugged. "I'm trying."
Carter said, "Your mother sent us down here."
The man nodded. "I heard. News travel fast in a small town. I was on the phone with my cousin's wife when Dick Culpepper heard you banging on the door."
Grinning, Carter said, "I'm from a small town. Nothing like it, is there?"
Not taking the bait of Carter's southern charm, the man crossed his arms and asked, "So, what do you want?"
I replied, "Your mother wanted us to give you your brother's address so she could write to him."
"I already got it. On some street called Los Feliz, right?"
We both nodded.
Carter said, "Did you know he's been writing your mother and the letters get returned unopened?"
The man shrugged. "Sounds like the old man. Tell Carlo to write me here. I'll pass 'em on even though I should really stay out of this."
Turning up the heat with some good old-fashioned guilt, I said, "I think your mother deserves to hear that from her other son, don't you?"
A wave of emotion passed over the man's face. "I guess. If Carlo would straighten up and fly right, none of this would've happened." He looked at me. I could feel the accusation in his eyes.
From what Martinelli had said, the father only knew about him being a homosexual because our pictures had been splashed across the front pages of the local newspapers the day after I'd made a scene at the Top of the Mark in May of '53. That had been the night when Carlo Martinelli had met his lover, Ben White, and there had been serious fireworks between the two of them. That was also the night I'd decided to tell George Hearst how I felt about him and his father's newspaper, The San Francisco Examiner. They'd been running stories about the men and women arrested at places like the Kit Kat Club, a watering hole for people like us. Names, addresses, places of employment, and photographs had been plastered in the newspaper under lurid headlines.
As a result of my actions, Carter, Carlo, and Ben had all been fired from their jobs. Carter and Carlo ha
d been firemen. Ben was a cop. Mike Robertson, my best friend and first lover, had also been fired from his post as a police lieutenant in the City's North District. We'd started a private investigation and security firm called Consolidated Security, Inc., and were doing pretty well at it.
Carter said, "Your brother is a good guy. He means a lot to both of us. He's family as far as we're concerned."
The other man shrugged. "Must be nice to pal around with millionaires."
Ignoring the barb, I said, "If we tell Carlo to send his letters here, will you make sure to pass them on to your mother?"
Looking up at the sky, he sighed, shook his head, and said, "Sure."
Chapter 2
The Condor's Nest
Roosevelt Highway
Monterey County, Cal.
Friday, November 11, 1955
Half past 4 in the afternoon
Back in the summer of '54, my father had bought a house on the cliffs overlooking the ocean. It was about twelve miles south of Carmel, right at the north end of the Big Sur, and included a working ranch of about eighty head of cattle who grazed the four hundred or so acres that stretched up the hill and into the valleys across the highway from the house. A married couple in their 50s managed the place. A handful of local kids helped out when they were needed, which was only every so often.
We'd been to the place once about a year earlier but only during the day and just to look around. As we came around a bend in the road, we knew we were close when we saw a long line of Monterey pines running along the highway on the right. They shielded the house from the road. Carter turned off the highway at a signpost that announced, "The Condor's Nest." A gravel drive wound through the pines for about fifty feet and then emerged under the big blue sky. It continued down a gentle slope through a big green lawn and ended at a circular drive. As Carter turned off the car and we both piled out, the big wooden front door swung open and a woman with a pinched face and a forced smile walked out onto the stone porch and looked at us both.
Lettie, my stepmother, had been the one to suggest we spend a week down in Big Sur. We'd been having dinner with her and my father. I'd mentioned that I was re-reading Tropic of Cancer, a racy book by Henry Miller that had been banned in the U.S. and had offered to loan it to her. She'd turned down my offer. Carter had then brought up the fact that Miller lived near the town of Big Sur. Lettie had suggested we take a week off and spend it at their house. My father had quickly seconded the suggestion. We'd just finished a very disturbing case and Lettie thought we both looked tired. We'd agreed since disagreeing with Lettie was never an option and, as my father often noted, she was always right. Over dinner, my father had filled us in on the history of the ranch and the couple who worked there.
The Hughes had worked for the previous owner for at least twenty years. Frank and his wife, Roberta, lived about ten miles down the road. She was the housekeeper and he took care of the cattle. At my father's insistence, Mr. Hughes had brought on a ranch hand to help out. He was a kid by the name of Charlie Garner.
As we stretched after the long drive, the woman called out. "I suppose you must be Mr. Williams. Your trunk arrived yesterday and I put away your clothes in the guest bedroom. I talked to that foreign kid who works for you and told him. I don't suppose he told you. I couldn't tell if he understood what I was saying." By that time, I'd walked up to the stone porch and offered my hand. She shook it quickly and then wiped her hand on the white apron tied across her waist.
"Nice to meet you, Mrs. Hughes." She nodded but didn't seem to think it was very nice at all.
Carter, who had grabbed the valises from the trunk, walked up right then and, with a grin, said, "Howdy, ma'am."
She sighed and shook her head. "I suppose that, as Mrs. Williams told me, both of you are sleepin' in the guest room. I don't really hold with that kind of nonsense but I'm just the help." Turning on her heel, she marched back into the house and disappeared.
I looked up at Carter who shrugged.
. . .
The house was as modern as anything I'd ever seen, including the house we owned down in L.A. It was a long series of rooms facing the ocean. The rooms were connected by a long hallway that extended in either direction from the entry way.
We stood in the entry way. The living room was right in front of us, a few steps down, and with a huge circular fireplace, about ten feet in diameter and in the center of the room. Beyond the fireplace, a wall of windows faced the cliffs and the ocean below. The ceiling was fifteen feet high with the white flue reaching to the top. We could see the same bank of fog that had been off the coast all the way down. It was still sitting about half a mile out. The water between the cliffs and the fog was a beautiful blue.
There were no individual pieces of furniture to be seen in the living room. Instead, there were benches lining both walls on the right and left, with thick cushions all covered in a russet fabric that looked sturdy and mildly comfortable. Mostly empty bookshelves were built into the wall on the right, rising above the benches and reaching the ceiling. The floor was covered in a light blue wall-to-wall carpet.
Apart from the wall of windows, the room was illuminated by six huge light fixtures, painted white like the walls and the ceiling. They were suspended from the ceiling by thick white cords and reminded me of big tear drops.
Carter put the valises on the white stone floor that stretched in either direction from the entry way and said, "What a view."
I nodded and added, "Somehow it looks bigger than the last time we were here."
"I hate this house." That was Mrs. Hughes who had suddenly appeared from nowhere.
"That so?" I asked.
She nodded, picked up the valises, and marched down the hallway to the right from the front door. We followed her in silence as she made the first left and began talking. "All the linens are fresh. Warshed everything yesterday and changed 'em all today." By the way she talked, I wondered if she was an Okie.
We walked into the bedroom. The first thing I noticed was that the ceiling was only about eight feet high. The room, compared to the living area, was much smaller and cozier. The same wall of windows faced the cliffs, the ocean below, and the fog in the distance.
There were three pieces of furniture in the room. A huge bed, low to the ground, and covered in a bedspread that was the same russet color as the cushions in the living room sat right in the middle of the room. It faced the windows and had a headboard with built-in shelves and built-in side tables on either side. A very long chest of drawers ran the length of the wall on the right side of the room. There was one arm-less chair, covered in the same russet fabric, that sat at the end of the chest and looked at the windows from an angle.
A bathroom opened off the far side of the bed. It was covered in a dark blue tile and was otherwise unremarkable.
Mrs. Hughes looked around the room disapprovingly. "The whole house is just windows, windows, windows. And if you don't think I don't spend my time washing those darn windows every single day I come to work, you've got another thing coming."
Without waiting for our reply, she stalked out of the bedroom and slammed the door behind her.
I looked up at Carter with a grin and said, "How's about I do all the cooking and cleaning for the next week and we give Mrs. Hughes a vacation?"
He turned his head and looked out at the cliffs. "I'll do the windows."
I reached up and kissed him on the lips. "Deal."
. . .
Mrs. Hughes stood in the entry way with a doubtful look on her face. She was wearing her coat and holding her pocketbook in the crook of her arm. "Bobby Reynolds should be here any minute with a week's worth of firewood for you." She looked around the living room, as if she was trying to see if she'd left anything behind. "Are you sure Mrs. Williams won't mind?"
Carter gently put his hand on her arm and nodded. "Nick'll square it with her. Don't worry."
"OK. Well, If you need anything, just pick up the phone, click twice, and ask Doreen fo
r 37. That's our number. And if we're not home, she'll take a message and let us know."
There was a knock on the door right then followed by the sound of the doorbell.
"That'll be Bobby," said Mrs. Hughes as she walked over and opened the door.
A lean kid of about 20 stood there. "Got the wood for them faggots. They here?"
"You hush, Bobby Reynolds! They're right here. And I wouldn't pick a fight if I was you."
As she spoke, Carter walked around me and stood to her left.
The kid, who stood about 5'5", stepped back as his eyes popped open wide. "Gee, mister. No offense."
Carter crossed his arms and asked, "Where's the wood?"
The kid turned and pointed. "In the back of my truck. My buddy's here with me. We can unload it pretty quick."
Carter nodded and stepped around Mrs. Hughes. "I'll help you. Get it done and you can get your sorry ass gone sooner."
The kid took off his cap and held it in his hands. "Sorry, mister. I mean it. It's just that—"
Mrs. Hughes shrilly interrupted him. "Go on, Bobby Reynolds. Mr. Jones will help you and Carl. And don't be fooling around."
He nodded and said, "Yes, ma'am." He turned around and took off to wherever his truck was parked.
Carter stalked after him but not before glancing over his shoulder at me and winking. I nodded and tried to keep from grinning back in reply.
Mrs. Hughes tugged on her right ear and said, "Don't pay attention to him, Mr. Williams. He's just a kid and doesn't mean any harm."
I nodded. "That's fine. How much does he charge for the firewood?"
"Five for the wood and five for the delivery."
I smiled tightly. "I'll take care of it. You'd better run along. And be sure to enjoy your time off."
She nodded nervously and began to make her way towards the door. "I just hope Dr. and Mrs. Williams aren't too upset by this."
I walked with her as she stepped out onto the stone porch. "They'll be fine. And don't worry about us. We'll be fine, too."
She nodded and quickly walked over to one of the two trucks parked over along the side of the house. One was a new 1955 Studebaker. It was painted a bright red. The other was a slightly rusted green 1949 Ford. I watched as she got into the Ford, opened the choke, and started the ignition. As she began to back out, she stopped and looked at me through the open passenger window. "That red truck belongs to the house. Keys are in the glove box."
The Rotten Rancher (A Nick Williams Mystery Book 16) Page 2
