The Rotten Rancher (A Nick Williams Mystery Book 16)

by Frank W. Butterfield

  Mrs. Reynolds nodded and, with a big grin, said, "Fine." She thought for a moment. "Fine and dandy."

  Carter and I both laughed as she shushed us.

  . . .

  By the time we got to the house, it was half past 3. We'd stopped at the Hide-A-Way Motel to grab the things we had there and to pay the bill. Mrs. O'Keefe had wished us well and told me that it was all over town about Mrs. Hughes jumping off the cliff.

  I pulled the car up next to the stone porch and killed the ignition. Carter parked the truck in its usual spot. He reached into the back of the truck and pulled out the two valises. I opened the trunk of the Ford and leaned against the side of the car as I watched Carter walk across the yard. He walked around me with a grin and stowed the valises in the backseat, saying, "We'll need to put the trunk in the trunk."

  We both laughed at that. As we did, a strong gust of wind blew around the far side of the house and slammed the trunk door closed. I jumped back, having barely removed my left hand from the edge of the trunk opening. It seemed like the temperature dropped about ten degrees. I looked up and saw heavy clouds moving quickly over the house. I said, "Let's get our stuff and get out of here. This is creepy."

  Carter nodded, walked up to the house, and pushed the door open.

  "Unlocked" I asked.

  "Yeah. I guess we both forgot again."

  As we walked into the entry way, I called out, "If there's anyone here, take anything you want. We're just here to get our clothes and then we'll be out of your way."

  Carter and I stood for a moment, both of us listening. The only sound was of the wind picking up outside, but that was mostly muted because of the sound-proofing.

  I followed Carter back into the guest bedroom. Everything was where we'd left it. I slammed the lid of the trunk closed. Carter locked one end and I locked the other. He picked it up and said, "Why don't you grab us a couple of Cokes from the icebox?"

  "Sure."

  I followed him down the hall and then scooted around him to open the front door. As he walked out with the trunk over his shoulder, another gust of wind came and slammed the door shut on him.

  Right then, I heard the generator start up. I jumped and said, "Shit!" We'd left the door to its room open, so I could plainly hear it. I walked over to the light switch on the living room wall and flicked it on and then off. The lights came on just fine.

  I walked into the kitchen and then decided to switch the generator off. As I reached down to press the button, a chill raced down my spine.

  Someone or something was in the house and I had no desire to find out who or what it was, so I ran back to the front door. As I tried to pull it open, it wouldn't budge. I looked and realized the lock was set, so I unlocked the door and pulled it open. Without waiting to close and lock it, I ran across the stone steps and over to the passenger door. Carter was already in the driver's seat and the engine was on. I jumped in, slammed the door closed, and said, "Get the hell outta here, right now."

  He put the car in gear and made a wide right turn in the grass back to the driveway. As he did, I could see the wind blowing the trees on the far side of the house and whipping them one way and the other.

  Carter sped through the small grove of Monterey Pine and jumped onto the highway without stopping to look. Fortunately, there was no one on the road. He drove like a bat out of hell all the way to the Rocky Point Restaurant. He then slowed down and asked, "What happened back there?"

  "I dunno. After you walked out the wind slammed the door closed and then the generator came on. I was about to turn it off when I felt something in the room with me. I ran back to the door but you had locked it already. Once I got it open... Well, you know the rest. Did you see those trees?" By that time, we were over the bridge and driving past where Frank Hughes had pushed the Sunbeam over the edge.

  In a very uncertain voice, Carter said, "Uh, Nick?"

  "What?"

  He scratched the back of his neck with his right hand and then offered it to me as he steered with his left.

  I took it, kissed the back of it, and repeated, "What?"

  "Well, first off, the front door opens inward from outside. The wind couldn't have slammed it closed."

  I nodded and swallowed. "Yeah. Maybe there was another door open in the house, like the back door out of the storage room."

  "Was the door out to the storage room from the kitchen open?"

  "No."

  "And the generator couldn't have come on because there was no gas in it. Remember? It ran out on its own on Saturday morning."

  I squeezed his hand and sidled up to him on the front bench of the car. He put his right arm around my shoulder and pulled me close. I reached over and pulled the heater vent open. I was feeling cold.

  "And, I didn't lock the door."

  Chapter 19

  Big Sur Inn

  Roosevelt Highway

  Big Sur, Cal.

  Tuesday, November 15, 1955

  Just past 7 in the evening

  "How about over there by the fireplace?"

  I nodded. "That's fine."

  A dark-haired woman dressed in a peasant skirt and a forest green sweater led us through the small but mostly empty dining room to a table by the window.

  I knew Carter well enough to know he would want to see the fireplace, small as it was, so I took the seat where my back would be to it.

  As we sat, she said, "There's no menu tonight. We have fried halibut and baked chicken casserole along with vegetables. Which would you like?"

  I looked up. "I'll take the halibut."

  Carter wistfully asked, "Is there any chance for a steak?"

  The woman smiled. "I think there might be a sirloin back there."

  "Can I have that, cooked well done?"

  She nodded. "Baked potatoes and creamed spinach are our vegetables. And we bake our own bread. We also have some red wine from down south. How about that?"

  We both nodded as she made her over to the kitchen door.

  I looked around. The restaurant was cozy and dimly lit. There were two other couples, sitting together, on the other side of the room. The furniture was simple and rustic, mostly hard-back chairs but none matched.

  Outside, the rain was blowing against the window. It had started raining about ten minutes after we'd passed where the car had gone off the road. The initial rain was light, but then it got stronger. The wind really began to pick up and Carter had had a hard time keeping the car on the road. When we got to the town of Big Sur, I noticed that the lights were still on at the little store where we'd stopped on Saturday to get groceries for Henry Miller. We'd asked Ronald, the owner, about making it all the way down to San Luis Obispo, the first town of any size at the end of Big Sur. He'd suggested we stay the night at Big Sur Inn. He'd called and asked them to put us up for the night. The owner, a Mr. Deetjen, was friendly and rented us a cottage with a double bed, a single bed, and a small private bath. It also had a fireplace for heating. Once we'd washed up, we'd made our way into the restaurant.

  I looked over at Carter and said, "This is where we should have stayed all along."

  He nodded and smiled wryly. "Sure. But think of all the fun we would have missed."

  I snorted. "Yeah."

  "We wouldn't have met Ron Forrester."

  "That's true. I kinda like the guy."

  "Me, too. And that Mr. Vazquez. I still can't believe how much he looks like Nacho."

  "Yeah," I said. I thought about that moment in their kitchen. When he'd looked at me, with his hand on mine, I'd felt like I was looking at something or someone more than just a big, sturdy, Mexican farmer. It had been another one of those moments where time seemed to stop. I had the feeling that they were happening more and more often.

  "Not to mention, a ghost at your father's house."

  In contrast to the memory of Mr. Vazquez, I could feel the cold in the room and shivered. "Yeah. I don't really believe in ghosts."

  Carter shrugged as the waitress was back wi
th our glasses of wine. As she put them down, she looked at Carter. "The cook wants me to make sure you really meant well done."

  Carter nodded. "Yes, ma'am. The done-er, the better."

  She smiled and walked away.

  . . .

  Carter was sawing into his steak. He took a bite, barely chewed it, and chased it with a drink of wine. Looking at me as he put down his glass, he asked, "Do you think you're ready to talk about France?"

  I put down my fork and wiped my mouth with my napkin. I took a long drink of wine and then said, "Yeah. Why don't you start?"

  He nodded. "OK. Here's my idea but, first, we agree that we run all of this by Lettie as soon as we get home, right?"

  "Yeah."

  "We sell the property company to Robert. We keep our stake in Consolidated Security. We sell the yacht." He paused to see if I had anything to say about that.

  "Yeah. Then what do O'Reilly and John Murphy do?"

  "We buy one for the Mediterranean."

  I nodded. "OK. Good. What else?"

  "I keep the house in Kauai. We give the cars to the kids. The Roadmaster to Gustav and Ferdinand. The Mercury to the girls."

  I shook my head. "No."

  "Why?"

  "I want to bring Gustav and Ferdinand with us, if they'll go."

  "What about Mrs. Strakova?"

  I nodded. "Fine. But I don't think she'll leave. I have a feeling she doesn't wanna go back to Paris. Too many bad memories from the war."

  He nodded. "Yeah. What about Mrs. Kopek?"

  "As long as my father agrees, I think she should run the house. I'm sure Lettie can use it for parties and fundraising. And for guests."

  Carter nodded. "Good. What about the girls?"

  "They could come with us, too. If they want. I'm sure that Nora would do very well in Paris with her artwork."

  Carter looked at me. "So, we buy a house in Paris that's large enough for us, a few guests, and a staff of six."

  "Six?"

  "Housekeeper and cook."

  I nodded. "Right." I thought for a moment. "I wonder how much houses in Paris go for?"

  "I got the impression from Henry Miller that they might go for pretty cheap since the currency keeps getting devalued." He paused. "Are you still going to keep moving money to Switzerland?"

  I nodded. "That depends on what Kenneth and Benjamin have to say about it. But, yeah."

  "How much more can you move?"

  I shrugged. "I have no idea."

  Carter took another drink of his wine. He hadn't touched his steak as we'd talked. He pushed his plate away. "That's all I can take."

  I'd lost my appetite, too. "Of your steak or this conversation?"

  "Both."

  "Yeah. Let's get out of here."

  . . .

  We had the windows open. They tilted out so we could get fresh air while the rain fell. Carter, who was down to his BVDs, was hunched over the fire, stoking it and breathing life into it.

  I was down to my BVDs as well. My feet were kicking the headboard. I was on my stomach with my head propped up on my arms at the foot of the bed. It was a wonderful thing to watch Carter from behind in the firelight. The way his muscles caught the light in different ways always made me feel warm inside and eager to be with him while also happy to gaze at him.

  Finally, he stood, walked into the bathroom to rinse off his hands, and then made his way to the bed. He stood above me, arms crossed, looking down as I turned on my side and looked up, admiring the view and the perspective.

  After a moment of us grinning at each other and his reaction to the situation becoming more obvious by the second, he knelt down by the bed and kissed me soundly on the lips. We stayed in that position for a while.

  . . .

  As I twirled my fingers in the hair on his chest, Carter asked me, "Do you think you can learn to speak French?"

  I laughed. "Never. I'll be the stupid American, walking the streets, hoping someone will be kind enough to take pity on me and let me buy a cup of coffee in English." He laughed as I described that. I knew it wasn't true because we'd been to Paris at the beginning of the year and I'd done OK wandering around on my own. "But, I bet you'll be able to do so easily."

  "How so?"

  "Because you have such a good memory for details."

  "I guess."

  I rolled over and sat up. Looking down at him, I said, "How long do you think we'll be gone?"

  Carter shrugged. "It could be for the rest of our lives."

  I sighed deeply. "Yeah. I guess you're right about that."

  "If Nixon wins in 1960, then—"

  "What if Ike loses next year?"

  Carter snorted and draped his arm over his forehead. "To who? Kefauver? Stevenson?" He shook his head. "Nope. Ike is in for '56."

  "You know I hate politics."

  "I know, Boss. But politics is why we are where we are."

  "Yeah."

  We sat there in the warmth of the bed and the coziness of the room. The quiet was interrupted by popping and cracking in the fireplace. The steady beat of the rain on the windows was a nice background music. I could feel my eyes closing. I stretched out next to Carter. He put his arm around me and then positioned himself and me so he could rest his head on my chest. As he played with the hair on my belly, I ran my hands up and down his back and felt myself drift off to sleep, as happy and content as I'd been in a while.

  Chapter 20

  Big Sur Inn

  Wednesday, November 16, 1955

  Half past 8 in the morning

  "Here you go." The same waitress who'd served us at dinner was back. She was holding two plates piled high with scrambled eggs, chewy bacon, and fried potatoes. Carter and I sat back to let her put the plates down. Once that was done, she said, "I'll be back in a minute to top off your coffee."

  I nodded as she smiled and walked away.

  Carter immediately dove into his breakfast. I followed his lead. I'd slept well and woke up starving. It was a gorgeous clear day following the fog and rain of the day before. We were raring to make our way down the coast, stopping where it caught our fancy. But we'd agreed to stop at the park where Frank Hughes had once worked when there was a C.C.C. camp there. And, we wanted to see if we could get into the grounds of Hearst Castle. Once we were showered and dressed, we'd packed up the car and made our way over to the small restaurant for breakfast.

  After a minute or so, the waitress was back with a pot of coffee. As she poured for both of us, I asked, "How far is it to Pfeiffer State Park?"

  She frowned for a moment. "It's about ten minutes up the road. But didn't you come down from Carmel last night?"

  We both nodded.

  "Well, you drove past it."

  I smiled. "We couldn't see much of anything in that rain."

  "Including the road," added Carter.

  Putting her hand on her hip, she said, "That was some storm last night, wasn't it?"

  I shrugged. "I always thought the weather was always like that down here."

  She grinned. "We have every kind of weather you can imagine, except snow, thank goodness."

  . . .

  Once we were in the park, we decided to hike along the Big Sur River, which wound its way through groves of redwood trees. Being that it was a Wednesday, we didn't see anyone except for a small group of British tourists and a couple of park rangers.

  The river was moving fast and seemed to be higher than normal. The trail, which was obviously from the C.C.C. days, was plainly marked, and kept in good order.

  The trees were keeping the temperature in the woods nice and chilly. The air was clean and fresh. The rain had a lot to do with that but there was a smell in the air from the trees and the forest floor, or so I guessed, that reminded me of fir trees but was more subtle, somehow.

  At one point, we came across a fallen tree covered in mushrooms and other fungi. It had fallen across the river. A portion of it had been cut away to allow hikers to continue up the trail. As we walked by it
, I noticed that the trunk was almost as tall as Carter. I stopped and looked at the rings.

  "How old do you think it was?" asked Carter.

  I tried to count the rings and stopped after a hundred. "At least five hundred years."

  He put his hand on the tree and took a deep breath. We stood there for a long moment. Finally, he put his arm around my shoulder and we continued down the trail.

  . . .

  After about an hour of hiking, we found ourselves back at the front of the park and near the ranger station.

  An old man was sitting on one of a group of benches in an open area. He had thinning white hair and his skin was deeply lined. His eyes were closed. His heavy tweed coat dated to the late 30s. A cornflower-blue scarf was tied around his throat in a way that reminded me of the way I'd seen men wear scarves in Paris. He was smoking a pipe and facing the sun, as if he was sunbathing.

  As we walked by, he said, "Good morning, Mr. Williams."

  We both stopped and turned. He slowly stood and smiled at us. Offering his hand to me, he said, "My name is Willard Pfeiffer."

  I shook and then asked, "Is the park named after your family?"

  He nodded. "Yes. Although they would claim I don't exist. But you must know how that feels."

  He looked up at Carter who was a good foot taller than he was. "And how are you, Mr. Jones?"

  As they shook, Carter said, "Fine. Nice park you have here."

  Mr. Pfeiffer grinned. "Not my park, by a long shot." Looking at me, his face took on a serious expression. "I heard about Frank Hughes and everything that happened up there."

  "Did you know Mr. Hughes?" I asked.

  He nodded. "Mind if we have a seat? My legs are willing but the knees aren't too sure."

  We both nodded. He took his seat and we sat next to each other on the bench closest to his. He tamped down the tobacco in his pipe and said, "I knew Frank Hughes back when the C.C.C. camp was here." He looked around slyly at the ranger station. "I'm gonna light my pipe. If they see me, one of those kids in there will be out in a flash." He took out a book of matches and lit one. He held the flame to the bowl of the pipe. In the bright sunlight, it was hard to see the smoke, but the aroma was obvious. It smelled sweet.