Turning back to look at me. "Haven't you found it to be the case, Mr. Williams, that if you just pay attention, you often find yourself right where you intended to be all along? Pushing and striving yield nothing. But, as you follow the fluidity of the mind, noticing the living mass of consciousness that inhabits all things, from a grain of sand to the sun in the sky, you will find that those around you will simply follow your lead, succumb to your will, and bring you that which you desire." As he'd been speaking, he'd been once again tilting his head back and forth, very slowly. It was fascinating to watch and made me feel as if I was being lulled to sleep.
Looking up at Carter, Parker said, "And, you, Mr. Jones. How do you find yourself here? Is it by chance? Or, perhaps, is there a meaning to your visit? We are always in the middle of our own webs and you are as fine a spinner as I've ever come across. You don't tell him everything, just enough to get your way."
I could feel an indignation come up into my throat as the man spoke. I didn't like the way he was talking to Carter, my husband. I wanted to jump in and defend him against Parker. Instead, I heard Carter say, "What a load of bull crap." The spell was broken.
Parker laughed and nodded. "It is, isn't it?" All the head tilting stopped. Parker suddenly looked like an older man in a weird suit of clothes and nothing more.
Looking over at John, Parker said, "Ask young Reynolds to come in, would you, please?"
. . .
"I wasn't sure what I should do, Mr. Williams."
Bobby, Carter, and I were sitting around a small table in a bedroom across the hall from the library.
I nodded at Bobby. "Tell us what happened."
He took a deep breath. "After Carl and I left your house, I dropped him off at home and then went back to my house. I took a shower and got dressed. After you talked about going to see a movie, I decided I wanted to go back and see Rebel Without A Cause again." He blushed. "I really like James Dean." He looked down at the table. "I know he's dead and everything but... well... I dunno..."
Carter gently reached out and put his hand on the kid's arm. "We all have our crushes and they never make sense."
A wave of relief passed over Bobby's face as he looked up at Carter. "Yeah."
Deciding I would probably have to play more of a bad cop than usual, I said, "We were at the movie. We didn't see you there." I tried to make my voice sound harsh.
He glanced over. "But I saw you. You were sitting in the back, under the balcony." He blushed again. "And you were holding hands."
"How'd you know that?" asked Carter.
Squeezing his shoulders together, Bobby replied, "I was sitting across the aisle from you." He smiled briefly. "But I guess, when you're in love with someone like you are, you just don't notice other people so much."
"Are you in love?" I asked.
Bobby looked at the table. "I thought I was."
"With Carl?" That was Carter.
He nodded. As he did, one big tear fell from his cheek and hit the table.
Carter pulled out his handkerchief and passed it to the kid.
Wiping his face, Bobby said, "I can't believe he's dead."
"How did he die?" I asked, realizing we were moving into the sheriff's territory.
"I don't know. Someone put a pair of shears in his back but there wasn't any blood. He was already dead when they stabbed him." Looking up at me, his face contorted with grief, he asked, "Who would wanna kill Carl?"
I didn't say anything.
Carter, whose hand was still on Bobby's arm, said, "It's OK, Bobby. If you wanna cry, just let it all out."
Laying his head down on the table, Bobby did just that.
. . .
While Carter was putting the kid to bed, I stood guard in the hallway. There was no one else around. In the big room down the hall, I heard the music stop then Parker began to speak. His voice carried clearly down the hall.
"Mastering your conscious mind is a constant task that will not end. Your mind will trick you. It will deceive you. It will make you believe that you are not the man you truly are. You must firmly, but quietly, reject these falsehoods. For they are false."
Right then, Carter opened the door. "He wants to go home."
I nodded and followed him back into the room. Bobby was standing by the bed, looking hollow, his eyes wary. "I thought I would be safe up here."
"Safe?" I asked, "from what?"
He shrugged. "From whoever killed Carl."
I could feel a knot forming in my stomach.
. . .
When we'd showed up at her house with Bobby in tow, Mrs. Reynolds had been relieved and hugged him tightly. We all sat in the living room as he explained how, after he'd found Carl's dead body at my father's house, he'd ditched his truck on an abandoned road a few miles north. He'd then hitched down the Roosevelt Highway to the drive that led up to The Parker Institute House. He'd then walked the ten miles up the valley early Saturday morning and onto the ridge. His mother had listened quietly, making no comments. She hadn't chastised him. I wondered about that.
Looking at his mother, Bobby said, "The reason I didn't come home on Friday night was because... well..." He looked down at the floor, his voice uncertain.
She patted his hand. "I know all about it, Bobby."
Still looking at the floor, he sighed heavily. "You know about me and Tom Wilkerson?"
She nodded. "That's why I let him go three weeks ago."
Bobby sat up and frowned. "But I thought you said—"
"I know. I said I was gonna sell the horses." She smiled briefly. "You think I'd sell Paint and Winnie? No, sir. They're as much my family as you are." She smoothed out her skirt. "No. I knew you were in love with Tom. That's why I let him go and gave him eight week's severance." She gave him half a grin. "You know what Big John used to say about things like this?"
Bobby shook his head with a tentative grin.
"Don't put your cock on the payroll."
We all laughed as Bobby covered his mouth in surprise and then exclaimed, "Momma!"
She shrugged. "That's what he said." Sighing, she added, "Your daddy used to do the same thing."
Bobby looked confused. "There were lady ranch hands?"
Mrs. Reynolds snorted. "No, sir. There never were. Never a one. Not that there aren't a few around here who couldn't do the job just as well as any man."
"Then Daddy messed around with Mrs. Sterling?"
"Big John's housekeeper? That old hen? No, sir." She let the question hang in the air a little longer.
Finally, Bobby seemed to understand what his mother was saying. "Daddy used to..." His eyes widened. "With the ranch hands?"
She nodded. "That's why Big John sent him off to the war after Pearl Harbor. Make a man out of him." Turning to me, she said, "You were in the Navy, Mr. Williams. Why don't you tell my son the truth about what happens on those ships?"
I swallowed hard and said, "Well, Mrs. Reynolds, I... well..." I could feel myself blushing.
Bobby piped up. "Oh, I know about that. Tom's best friend from Bakersfield was in the Navy during the Korean War. He told me all about it."
Mrs. Reynolds crossed her arms and nodded. "So you know your daddy likely died a happy man."
The whole conversation felt surreal to me. I'd never seen or heard of any parent being as frank and direct as Mrs. Reynolds was with her son right then.
Bobby nodded solemnly. "I guess so. But, how did you know?"
She rubbed her chin. "He told me. On our wedding night."
Bobby put his hand on her arm. "Oh, Momma."
She shook her head. "Don't you feel sorry for me, Bobby Reynolds. It was a relief, really."
I glanced at Carter, who winked at me with a slight nod.
Bobby thought for a moment. "So, does that mean—"
Standing up, Mrs. Reynolds crossed the room and made her way into the kitchen. "I need a beer. Anyone else?" Carter and I asked for more coffee. Bobby asked for a bottle of Pepsi. As she moved around the kitchen
, she said, "I just hired a new ranch hand. Her name is Marjorie. She's from Salinas. She starts on Monday. She's looking forward to meeting you, Bobby. And, I hope it doesn't shock you too much to know that she'll be living here, too. Big John will be spinning in his grave."
. . .
"You got enough clothes for a few days?" That was Mrs. Reynolds.
Bobby nodded. "I do." He put his arms around his mother as we stood just inside the front door. "I love you, Momma."
She nodded, patted the back of his head, and kissed him on the cheek. "I love you too, baby."
He let her go and picked up his valise, an old job that had to date to the 1900s.
"You be sure and call me when you get to Tom's. And keep your head down, Bobby." Looking at me, she asked, "You think this is the safest thing to do?"
I nodded. Whoever was behind Carl's murder had tried to kill us. "I think it's pretty obvious that Bobby got lucky. Just like we did. Whoever is involved is probably looking for him."
"And you don't mind if the two of them head up to your house in San Francisco?"
Carter answered for me. "No, ma'am. We'll call ahead and let Gustav, he's our butler, know to expect the two of them."
She nodded and looked at Bobby. "Well, you call me when you and Tom get up there and get settled in. Don't run off on me like that ever again, son. Do ya hear?"
"Yes, Momma." He dropped his valise on the floor and hugged her impulsively. "I'm sorry I worried you."
She laughed quietly as she hugged him back. "I've known you all your life, Bobby Reynolds. You're smarter than most and I knew you'd gone somewhere that no one would suspect." She pushed him away. "Now, get going. Mr. Williams and Mr. Jones have better things to do with their time than be witness to our shenanigans."
Chapter 11
La Fonda Restaurant
Corner of Abrego and Fremont Streets
Monterey, Cal.
Sunday, November 13, 1955
A few minutes past 6 in the evening
Carter and I were seated in a round booth in the back of the Mexican restaurant by the hostess. Her black hair was pulled back off her face and she was wearing a flower-patterned skirt and a turquoise blouse.
She motioned to the table and, with a slight accent, said, "Sit here, please. Deputy Forrester says he will arrive shortly. Enjoy your meal, gentlemen."
We'd made it to the clothing store at 4 on the dot. The owner, a short, stout man by the name of Harris, had been waiting for us and quickly unlocked the front door. He'd mentioned that Forrester had called to say there had been a change in the dinner plans and gave us the name and address of a Mexican restaurant. By the time we'd finished in his store, it was already a quarter past 5. He'd brought in a seamstress to make the adjustments while we waited. We both changed clothes in the dressing rooms instead of heading back down to Carmel. Having some time to kill, we'd then taken the truck over to the pier and watched the sea lions for a few minutes before heading to the restaurant. It had been a nice evening but we were downwind of what was left of Cannery Row and Carter, who had a sensitive nose, didn't much like it.
"What will you drink?" asked a dark man, somewhat stout, with a big mustache.
"Do you have Burgermeister beer?" asked Carter.
He nodded. "Yes." Looking at me, he asked, "And, for you?"
"Can you make a margarita?"
With a grin, he replied, "Of course, sir."
"I'll have one."
"Very good," replied the man. "I will bring you menus once Deputy Forrester arrives."
We nodded as he moved away.
"Tequila?" asked Carter with a grin.
I shrugged. "I was thinking about Marge earlier today. It's in her honor." Our friend, Marjorie Rocha, a one-time Ziegfield girl who owned a hotel down in Ensenada along with her Mexican husband, Alfonso, was alleged to be the namesake of the drink. She'd been a good friend to us over the previous couple of years. Her hotel was coveted by the Governor of Baja California. He was trying to figure out a legal way to expropriate the place. It was just a matter of time, unfortunately, before it happened.
Carter looked at me. "Have you thought any more about how we can help her employees once the governor gets his hands on the place?"
"I've turned it over to Marnie. Last I heard, she had a plan. Apparently it's not completely legal. Something to do with me not being a Mexican citizen."
"That's always the rub."
I nodded. "Yeah. Between her and Lettie, they'll come up with something brilliant."
Carter grinned. "No doubt about that."
I looked him up and down for a moment. "You look very handsome, tonight."
He wiggled his eyebrows at me, "Yeah?"
I nodded. "Yes, in fact—"
Before I could tell him my very specific idea about the fun we could have that night, Forrester walked up. He grinned and sat across from us on the far side of the booth. "Just get here?" he asked.
I nodded. "Yeah. Carter's got a Burgie coming and I'm in for a margarita. What's your poison?"
He ran his hand over his face. He looked a little worn out for some reason. "I think I could stand a margarita myself."
The stout man who'd taken our order returned with a bottle of Burgie for Carter, along with a small glass and a plate of sliced limes. After setting that down, he handed me a highball glass with a salted rim.
Looking down at the deputy he smiled. "How are you, Sheriff?"
Forrester shook his head with a grin. "Now, stop that, Tito. You know I'm a deputy."
Turning to me, he said, "You know, Mr. Williams, this man, he'll be Sheriff someday." Wagging his finger at me, he added, "Just you watch." Turning back to the deputy, he added, "But first, you have to get married."
Forrester shrugged and blushed. "I'm working on it, Tito." He then looked at us and said, "So, I see you've all met."
I shook my head as Tito said, "Who doesn't know the famous Nick Williams from San Francisco?" Glancing over at Carter, he added, less enthusiastically, "And Mr. Carter Jones?"
Forrester nodded. "They're pretty famous but not as much as you, Tito." He turned to me and said, "Did you know that Tito is from the City? Grew up near the Mission Dolores." He glanced up at Tito with a grin. "His cooking was so famous in the Army Air Corps that S.F.B. Morse himself asked Tito to move down here so Morse could eat all the Mexican food he wanted." Samuel Finley Brown Morse had developed Pebble Beach and a few other golf courses. I wasn't sure, but I had an idea that my father knew him from back during the Depression.
Tito beamed at the deputy and then looked over at me. "Yes. Mr. Morse was very kind. I like living down here. Much better than all crowded in the City. Are you thinking of buying a house?"
I shook my head. "Just visiting. My father owns a place on the Roosevelt Highway about twelve miles south of Carmel."
Tito frowned. "Yes. I read about the very sad murder there on Saturday." He clapped Forrester on the shoulder. "But this sheriff, he'll have the whole case wrapped up in no time. Now, Sheriff, what can I bring you?"
Forrester pointed to my drink and said, "Margarita, please."
Tito tilted his head. "They're very strong. If you're working tomorrow, I think you should only have one."
"That's fine, Tito. I'll switch to beer after I finish the first one." He snapped his fingers. "Oh, and by the way, my sister and her husband should be here in about fifteen minutes. We'll wait to order until then."
Tito grinned. "Are their two lovely daughters coming, too?"
"No. Monica came down with a cold. My mother's going to stay with the girls. That way Ellen and Rick can have a night out, even if it is a Sunday."
Tito nodded. "Very good. I'll tell the cook to let him know that your sister is coming. She likes the chile verde. It's not on the menu, tonight, but I'll make sure the cook makes up a pot of it for her."
Forrester nodded appreciatively. "Thanks, Tito. It's always a real pleasure to come in for a meal."
Bowing slightly, Tito
replied, "The pleasure is mine."
. . .
"We found Bobby Reynolds." I said that as the deputy was taking a sip of his drink.
He stopped and looked up at me. "Where is he?"
Carter and I had argued about what to say. I figured that I might as well tell him the truth. "We sent him up to the City for safekeeping."
Forrester's eyes narrowed into slits. He looked at me for a long moment. "So you think he's innocent?"
"I think he was a target."
"So, the murderer went after the two of you and then after Carl and Bobby for the same reason?"
Before I could reply, Carter asked, "Were we targets? Wasn't the killer risking things by waiting for when the power went out?"
Forrester looked at me. He was obviously angry but he also appeared to be trying to figure out whether he should be or not. Turning to Carter, he said, "The power didn't go out. I called the power company and confirmed it. The best I can tell is that someone switched it off at your box."
"Isn't the panel inside the house?" I asked.
"That's the breaker panel. There's a big red on/off switch on the side of the house where the line from the pole attaches. I saw it yesterday morning. It was in the on position. Do you remember if the power was on when you arrived at the house yesterday?"
I thought about it for a moment. "I don't." Looking over at Carter, I said, "We didn't turn on any lights, did we?"
"Nope," he replied. "We didn't need to with all those windows and the sun being out."
Forrester took a long sip of his drink and, with a flick of his tongue, licked off a bit of the salt on the rim. For some reason, it gave me a nice, warm feeling. Carter must have seen it, because he shifted in his seat.
I sat back and looked at the deputy in a new light. He wasn't unattractive. Unlike most men, he let his chestnut hair run free without any pomade. It made him look like he was standing in the wind. There was also something about him that looked slightly wild and untamed. I could feel myself responding to his frustration, which was all over his face, as if it was an invitation to a roll in the hay. A roll that might involve him taking out his frustrations in some very specific ways.
The Rotten Rancher (A Nick Williams Mystery Book 16) Page 10
