The Last Annual Slugfest

by Susan Dunlap

  “Made no deposit.”

  I stared. “Hooper’s family didn’t have to pay a deposit?” Hooper had described his family as transients, with his stepfather escaping a couple of yards ahead of the sheriff. They were hardly people Mr. Bobbs would trust without a deposit.

  “It was paid for them,” he said.

  “Closing,” the woman at the counter called. “Please bring your purchases up here.”

  Mr. Bobbs pushed around me and trudged toward her. Coming up by his side, I said, “Who paid the deposit?”

  He put the bag on the counter.

  “Six forty-seven with the tax,” the woman said.

  Mr. Bobbs handed her a ten-dollar bill.

  I stood between him and the door.

  He took the change, pocketed it and the receipt, hoisted the bag on his other shoulder, and took a step forward.

  I didn’t move.

  But my trick didn’t work twice. He shifted around me and headed out the door.

  I ran after him. “Who, Mr. Bobbs?” I demanded as we crossed the parking lot.

  He lowered the plastic bag next to the back of his car. “Edwina Henderson.”

  “What? Edwina Henderson paid his family’s deposit? Why did she do that?”

  “I don’t know, Miss Haskell. It seems to have escaped you that it is not the function of Pacific Gas and Electric to inquire into the motives of accounts when they remit their required fees.” He opened his trunk, hoisted the bag, and set it in. The trunk was otherwise empty, and spotless.

  “Well, did she make a habit of helping poor people with their deposits?”

  “No, she did not. The Hooper family was the only deposit she ever paid.”

  “Mr. Bobbs—”

  “Miss Haskell, I’ve told you company business. I shouldn’t have. But having done that, I’ll tell you now that that is everything I know about the Hooper family. If it is your intention to keep yourself standing in my way until you drown, you can do so, but there is not another thing you’ll be able to ascertain from me. Is that clear?”

  “Just one more thing, Mr. Bobbs.”

  He shook his head in disbelief.

  “It’s not about that. It’s about your garden. Do you use liquid nicotine to kill your aphids?”

  “Certainly not.” He slammed the trunk.

  “Why not?”

  “Miss Haskell, nicotine is a poison. I don’t want that near my vegetables. The only place you can safely use that is where there’s no danger of it getting into the soil, at least not unless you’re sure there’ll be a good month for it to wash out. And, Miss Haskell, the aphids aren’t so accommodating as to move on a month before I’m ready to harvest my lettuce.” He opened his car door and got in.

  I was still thinking about those odd little beds of roses at the fish ranch when he pulled out.

  CHAPTER 16

  AFTER MR. BOBBS HAD driven out of sight, I wondered why the sheriff had called him in for questioning again today. Had it just been a double check? Or was the sheriff zeroing in on Hooper’s visit here years ago? I could have gone after Mr. Bobbs. I knew where he lived. But I couldn’t face that any more than he could. Instead I drove across North Bank Road and onto the town beach.

  In summer, the beach was two levels. The lower tier was near the river where the sunbathers shared the sand with beached canoes and paddle boats, and grandparents and grandchildren grouped around the wading pool the town made by shovelling a U back into the beach and allowing the river water to fill it. In summer that area was thirty yards wide. Now, with the river almost at flood stage, it was under water.

  The second level, where I was parked, was used for cars in summer, too.

  I sat, watching the brown water tumbling toward the ocean. Each spring the summer dams were erected. Without those dams, the water wouldn’t be deep enough to swim in. In places it wouldn’t cover your knees. But now it tossed whole branches like they were twigs. The rain smacked down on my windshield. Suddenly, I realized how cold the truck was. I reached for the heater, but didn’t turn it on. The damp cold was fitting.

  What I had found out, after an entire day devoted to Edwina’s murder, was nothing more than a slew of questions. Who was Hooper? I had wondered why Edwina chose to hire him to work in her store. Now I had the answer: she knew him before. She had paid the family’s PG&E deposit. Why did she do that? Nothing suggested that Edwina was financially generous. From what I had heard, her commitments were limited to time and enthusiasm only; her money was reserved for herself. I recalled Bert Lucci complaining that she wouldn’t even pay for the cleaning service at Steelhead Lodge. So why would she come across for a transient family’s utility deposit? Because they were Pomos? If so, why, in all the following years, had she never helped another Indian family? Or an Oriental family? But she hadn’t. On that, Mr. Bobbs’s recollections were the word of God.

  And nicotine. Again, I trusted Mr. Bobbs. There was no reason for him to lie. If it wasn’t applied near vegetables, then one place it was safe to use it would be at the fish ranch. The outside area of the fish ranch was all cement, all except the flower beds. Even the ditches where the young fish would swim were cement. Maxie Dawkins had explained to me once, at length, that they would be filled with a layer of pebbles before the little fish were allowed out in them. So, beyond the flower beds, the nicotine had no soil to spread in.

  And that brought the question back to Angelina Rudd. Even if she had access to nicotine, it still meant that she had to have known about the treaty long enough in advance to stop at the ranch and pick up the poison. And Hooper had said Edwina told no one but him.

  But if Edwina had gotten the treaty from her mysterious niece Meg, mightn’t Meg, who was Leila’s cousin, have told Leila, and Leila have told Angelina?

  It all pointed back to Leila. It was time she gave up protecting her lover and told me if that lover was, indeed, Angelina.

  I put the truck in reverse, swung around, and headed back for North Bank Road.

  The Women’s Space Bookstore was dark. No one was visible inside. Where was Leila? She had insisted she had to be here all day. The store had been closed when I drove by two hours ago.

  I pulled into a parking spot in front, got out, and walked to the door. I had hoped to find a note saying “Back at 6:00,” but there was nothing tacked to the door. I reached for the handle. The door was unlocked!

  For the first time I was more worried than annoyed. I tried to think of a reasonable explanation for her absence. Could she have run across the street to the café to fill her thermos? But she wouldn’t have turned the lights off in the bookstore for that. Could she—

  A car door slammed. A woman—tall, blond—ran across the sidewalk toward me. She was carrying a camera bag. “Hello. Are you Leila?” she called out. “I’m Anna Martin.” Looking at her watch, she added, “Right on time, too.”

  “You’re from the Chronicle, aren’t you?” I asked. “Doing the feature article?”

  “Yes.” She eyed me skeptically. “Aren’t you Leila Katz?”

  “No. I’m Vejay Haskell, a friend of hers. She was planning to be here now. She told me this morning how much she was looking forward to seeing you. It was very important to her. But her aunt died last night. Leila was up all night. She was exhausted this morning, but she was still determined to see you at six.” My words rushed out. Somehow, in my increased worry about Leila, it seemed essential that I make this woman understand that Leila hadn’t just stood her up.

  Anna Martin nodded slowly. “I’ve got to be back in San Francisco at nine. I’ll have to leave here by seven-fifteen at the latest.”

  “I’m going to Leila’s house now. She probably was falling asleep this afternoon and went home for a nap and forgot to set the alarm. Look, the door to the store is open. Why don’t you go on in and check it out, take pictures.”

  “Okay, but like I said, I’ve got to be home at nine.”

  I ran for my truck, started the engine, and hung a U on North Bank Roa
d. At Zeus Lane I turned right. The road was steep and dark. Before I came to Leila’s house, the pavement ended. From that point the street was mud. In a more cosmopolitan area the top of the hill would have been a plush location. It would have boasted half-million-dollar homes with imposing decks. But the apex of Zeus Lane looked like a scene from the Ozarks. Dim lights came from the windows of tiny ramshackle cabins, and herds of maimed vehicles, many on blocks, were parked where front lawns might have been.

  But Leila’s little house was well maintained. It was also dark. And worse, there was no car in front. I knocked on the door.

  No answer.

  I knocked again, loudly. Then I leaned over the porch rail and rapped on the bedroom window.

  No response at all. She couldn’t have slept through all that banging. She wasn’t there. Now I was really worried.

  I walked back to my truck. What could have made her forget Anna Martin and the publicity that might thrust the bookstore into the black financially? Why would she have left the bookstore unlocked? What could have been so important, so surprising, so compelling?

  I looked across the street at Hooper’s cabin, hoping he could tell me something. But his place was dark, too.

  Turning the truck around, I headed back down the hill. I parked in the same spot on North Bank Road, and ran across the street to the café, and then back to Fischer’s Ice Cream. But neither of the clerks had seen Leila leave. Neither had even realized the bookstore was closed.

  I pushed open the door to the bookstore. All the lights were on. Anna Martin was standing by Leila’s chair, next to the table that held the thermoses. “Did you find … I guess not,” she said.

  “No. I’m a little worried,” I said, in understatement. “Can she call you?”

  “I guess. But I can’t drive back up here. I’m on a tight deadline. I had the flu last week and I’m really behind. I took some pictures of the store. I’ve got a good idea of the stock. Here’s my number at home. She can leave a message on my machine if I’m not there.” She handed me her card. Her home phone number was pencilled in.

  After Anna Martin had left, I stood in the empty store. The bookshelves looked undisturbed. On the table were three empty cups, one with lipstick marks and one half full of black coffee. Leila had been drinking her coffee black this morning. But that didn’t mean anything. I sank into the chair where I had sat this morning, asking Leila about her lover, listening to her refuse to reveal his or her identity. Now, as I looked at her chair, I saw it wasn’t empty. On it lay a book, lying face down—a tall thin book, a children’s book. I turned it over. For Bear Lovers Only!

  Bear Lovers! Leila had explained about Bear just this morning. She’d expected me to stop here this afternoon. She was telling me she had gone off with Bear. With a shudder, I realized that if Leila had left with an easy mind, she wouldn’t have put the book on the chair for me. She left a trail because she was worried, or frightened. Had she gone with Bear to protect him, or her?

  Maybe Leila had dropped everything to help Bear.

  Maybe. No one but Leila knew Bear’s identity. If Bear had killed Edwina, then Leila was a threat.

  Who was Bear? According to Rosa, Angelina was the only adolescent girlfriend Leila had had. She was the person to whom Leila turned the summer of the scandal. Leila went to her house secretly, to protect Angelina from Edwina’s wrath. Angelina had access to whatever nicotine there was at the fish ranch, and to Maxie Dawkins’s Estrin. It all pointed to her. But I wanted to be sure before I committed myself to going to the fish ranch for the evidence—before I took the chance of coming up against the violent night guard.

  I couldn’t be sure Angelina was Bear, but she was more likely than anyone else. And with Leila gone, I had to do something.

  Perhaps I was jumping to conclusions about Leila being worried. Maybe the book was a coincidence. Maybe she’d just gone off. But she wouldn’t have left the shop unlocked. She wouldn’t have forgotten Anna Martin.

  Not believing for an instant that it would do any good, I looked up Angelina’s phone number and used Leila’s phone to call. There was no answer. Angelina and her family could still be up at Fort Ross. They could be pitching the tent right now. Angelina might be innocently vacationing, but …

  It didn’t leave me much choice. If Angelina had lured Leila away from here, if she was keeping her captive, assuming she hadn’t already killed her, she wouldn’t be likely to do that in her own house, with her husband and child there. She’d be holding Leila at the fish ranch, where she had a guard who had said there was nothing he wouldn’t do for her.

  Turning out the lights in the shop, I closed the door and headed for my truck and the fish ranch.

  CHAPTER 17

  BUT AS I STARTED the engine, I thought of Maxie Dawkins’s description of the night guard who had almost killed a man. One more check at Leila’s house, I told myself. I would feel like a fool if I raced out to the fish ranch and ran afoul of the guard, only to discover that Leila was home in front of her fire. By now—seven-twenty on a Saturday night—North Bank Road was too crowded to allow a U-turn. I drove east to the traffic light and waited. The sidewalks were filled with groups of fishermen making the most of their last night before the salmon season. Tomorrow night they would be on their boats, ready to head out into the black Pacific at two A.M.

  I turned left, and then left again onto Zeus Lane, and then up through the mud to Leila’s house.

  I ran through the rain to her door and banged long and hard. But there was no answer. I started to bang again, as if the force of my fist could bring her here to safety. Then, realizing the futility, I stopped.

  There was a light on in Hooper’s cabin. I ran across the muddy street to his door and pounded. But although the cabin was tiny, I heard no steps toward the door. Hooper wasn’t the type to leave the light on and go out. The part-time work at the tobacco shop was his only income, and knowing Edwina, that was no more than minimum wage. In the two years I had been reading his meter, Hooper consistently had the lowest usage on the hill.

  “Hooper. It’s Vejay Haskell.”

  Moody as he was, it was more likely that he was inside and didn’t want to come to the door. I knocked again.

  The door opened. Hooper looked as he had this afternoon. He had on the same worn work clothes. His eyes had that same wary look. From behind him came the smell of wood burning. “Are you still nosing around in Leila’s life?” he demanded.

  That was the question and the attitude that had forced me off the Pomo rancheria this afternoon. But now I stood firm. “Leila’s not home. Do you know where she is?”

  He glanced over my shoulder in the direction of her dark house. “Maybe she’s at the store.”

  “The bookstore was closed at four this afternoon.”

  “Are you sure?” He sounded worried.

  “She wasn’t there to meet the Chronicle reporter.”

  His eyes widened. It was clear he understood the significance of that.

  “And the store door was unlocked. Can I come in? It’s pouring out here.”

  “Yeah, sure. Leila should be home. This isn’t a part of town you leave your place dark. If Leila goes somewhere, she tells me. If she’s going to be gone overnight, I stay in her place. Her house is a lot better than this.” He indicated the room behind him.

  It was warm and somewhat smoky inside, the smell of burning wood filling the tiny room. Beside the fireplace was a stuffed chair that could have been the companion piece of a Steelhead Lodge sofa. The floor was covered with pieces of rugs, some remnants, some clearly rejects. They were piled haphazardly one on another so that ends curled upwards at odd places on the floor and every step required thought. An archway led to another room that was divided, half covered with a pile of blankets (similar to the rugs in here) that must have been Hooper’s bed, and the other half holding a miniscule kitchen. I saw no sign of a bathroom; there was probably an outhouse out back. Behind him was what appeared to be Hooper’s one extravagance
—his books. The bookcase ran from floor to ceiling and covered the entire wall. There were clothbound volumes on California law, hardbound and paperback books on gardening, native California plants, and organic vegetables. And on the two top shelves, Hooper must have had every book written on American Indians.

  “Leila’s got stuff worth stealing in her place. When I stay over there I figure that if anyone is dumb enough to break in here, they’ll be so mad that they’ll wake me up slamming things around.”

  I must have looked surprised, because he went on. “Leila and I are friends. Up here there’s no one else. This part of the hill, it’s all little places like this. Most of the people live in them because they can’t get it together to pay for anything better. Me, I choose not to. There’s a difference.”

  I nodded.

  “But Leila, if she says she’ll bring you something from the grocery, you can warm your oven. If she borrows a book, she returns it and the binding isn’t broken. With the rest of these people, I’d never think of lending one of my books.” He laughed. “Of course, it’s not like they read. When you’re that zonked out, a label on a can of chili is like War and Peace.”

  This part of Zeus Lane was well known in the PG&E office. It got more fourteen-day notices, three-day notices, and shut-offs than any other part of town. And there was barely an account that hadn’t merited an “R” in the changes column for tampering.

  “Could Leila have decided to spend the night with a lover?” I asked.

  Hooper’s face shifted into that ominous blankness. I glanced down at his stocky, muscular body. How sure was I that it wasn’t he who’d killed Edwina? I really didn’t know anything about him. He had come through town one or two summers, years back. Then four years ago he had turned up again. I didn’t know from where. I didn’t even know for sure he was a Pomo. I, and everyone else, had only his word for that.

  He took a breath and motioned me toward the one chair. I sat on the edge. The fire warmed my right side. Squatting on the rug pieces, he said, “Leila doesn’t have a lover now.”