by Jack Lynch
The Frame Up was on the south side of the Square. A big, plate glass window provided a nice display area to pull in passing foot traffic. It now featured a huge mural filled with caricatures of local people and places. It was a busy piece of work, almost disjointed, with funny juxtapositions and oddly shaped forms in a variety of styles. It showed the Town Square, including the Frame Up, the ocean and state park up north, skinny dippers, service stations, firemen, sexy drive-in waitresses, humorless cops, dairy farms, bars, a chugging train, souped-up cars and enough other people and things to make a person dizzy.
I went inside, tinkling an overhead bell. The shop was narrow, cramped and seemingly deserted. Things elbowed one another for space. Paintings covered the walls, hung from the ceiling and stood propped on the floor. Glass display cabinets stored charcoal, oils, pencils and blades. The propped and hanging work showed a multiplicity of styles, from delicate still life to portraits to exploding heavens. Something clattered behind a curtained doorway in the rear and a man's voice cursed.
"Hello!" it cried out. "Is there anybody out there?"
"That's right."
"Well come on back here and give me a hand, will you?"
I went back through the curtain to a disordered storage area more crammed with things than the front shop. Racks suspended from the ceiling held empty frames and wooden boards and slats. A long, sinewy fellow in his fifties wearing a smock was atop a stepladder. He leaned at a precarious angle with a large, ornate frame in one hand.
"Take this for a minute, will you? And be careful of that one on the floor beside the ladder. I just dropped the damn thing."
I took the ornate frame and retrieved the fallen one. The man on the ladder did some more business with the rack until he pulled out yet another frame. "Now, if you'll be kind enough to take this one for me."
I took it and put it aside.
"Then hand back those others."
When we were all through he climbed down and wiped his hands on his smock. "Much obliged, mister. Something's got to give, there's just no more room. Either I gotta expand or else touch off the whole shebang with a match."
"You're not serious?"
"I am mightily torn," said the older fellow, carrying the frame into the front of the shop. "What with all the different media and material the art gang wants—always something different. I swear to God I spend half my time on the ladder in back and the other half on the telephone to San Francisco ordering things. My name's Wiley Huggins, by the way. Owner and proprietor."
He offered a narrow hand that had a strong grip. "Peter Bragg," I told him. "Saw in the phone book you seem to be the only art supply place around."
"That is correct. Wish to hell I had some competition. But you have to know your business, same as with anything else. Plus not have any big dream to become a millionaire. That seems to be a hard combination to find anymore."
"At least it should make my job easier. I'm looking for a young fellow from San Francisco. I was hoping to find him through a friend he went to school with, living up here now. Probably an artist."
"Well there are plenty of them around. Some real, some pretending and a whole slough in between. The one who might be an artist you say, is it a man or a woman?"
"I don't know that. Here's a picture of the man I'm looking for. His name is Jerry Lind. He was supposed to have been around town here a couple of weeks ago. Maybe he came in here with his friend."
Huggins adjusted his glasses and squinted at the photo. "No, I've never seen this man."
"You're sure?"
"Yup. He bears a strong resemblance to a nephew of mine. They both have weak chins."
"His friend would probably be about the same age. Middle or late twenties. Went to school down in Southern California."
"Oh, God," said Huggins, dusting off the frame. "I don't know where they all come from, or where they're going. Half of them don't know themselves. They're a little crazy, you know, artists. And some of them, the long-haired and the unwashed, are apt to shamble around town with glazed eyes not knowing where they are right at the present."
"Is there a drug problem in town?"
"I wouldn't say that. It's mostly people passing through. There was one of those commune things a few miles back in the hills one time, but they've pretty well moved on. Still, you see somebody from time to time who looks as if that's where they'd be headed."
"Do the serious artists around town have a special gathering place?"
"They have several of them. Any bar in town. Of course you're a lucky fellow, coming through this particular night."
"Why is that?"
"There's a big bash going on out at Big Mike Parsons' place. Barbecue, picnic and drinking contest. He throws one every year. Half the town attends, though it's supposed to be mostly for the arty types. That's why my part-time help, Big Mike's wife Minnie, isn't here to help me shift things around."
"How come you're not out there?"
"I went last year. Made the mistake of overindulging. My wife wouldn't let me back in the house for two days."
"Can you give me directions?"
"Sure, I can," he said, looking about him with the frame still clenched in his hands. "But wouldn't you like to buy something first? There's no goddamn room left where I can put this sucker down."
EIGHT
Parsons lived northeast of town in rolling, wooded country. It was a fairly remote location, back a quarter of a mile from the main road. A dirt drive climbed up and finally emptied out into a large clearing. The house behind it was a big old place with a pair of cupolas at either end and a large, stone chimney. There were more than twenty cars parked in the clearing. I pulled in beside a VW bug with one rear fender missing. The front of the house was dark, but there were crowd noises from around back. They sounded as if they'd been drinking for a couple of days. A lighted path went along one side of the place, but I was intrigued by the house itself as I went up the stairs and rang a cowbell hanging beside the door.
It took a while, but the porch light finally went on overhead. The woman who opened the door looked like the classic farmer's wife. She was a small, straight person wearing bib overalls, a plaid shirt and straw hat. Her hair was tucked up under the hat and her age was indeterminable. She had a rubber glove on one hand and squinted out at me.
"Yes? Do I know you?"
"No, Ma'am. My name is Bragg. I'm from San Francisco. Are you Mrs. Parsons?"
"Yes..."
She was a little wary, as if she didn't like to have strangers at the door. "I was sent out by Mr. Huggins at the art shop in town. I'm trying to find somebody living in this area. Probably a painter. He said you were having a party this evening and that I might find the person I'm looking for out here."
"You might at that. Come along in. I was just trying to straighten out some of the mess in the kitchen."
I stepped into a high-ceilinged room with sparse furnishings and a mammoth fireplace to one side. When she closed the front door the sound echoed off bare walls and something like a sigh came from the fireplace. Mrs. Parsons noticed my curiosity.
"This is a funny old house. We don't use this room much. Too damp and gusty."
I followed her into a room that looked a little more lived-in and on out into the kitchen. "Who is it you're trying to find?"
"I don't have a name. I don't even know if it's a man or a woman."
She laughed and crossed to the sink to begin rinsing off plates. "You do have yourself a problem, don't you?"
"I'm afraid so." She was a bright-eyed woman who attacked her chores with considerable energy. Her skin was browned by the sun. Her cheekbones and chin were prominent. She'd probably be fit and and doing her own housework when she was a hundred.
"Why is it you're looking for him or her?" she asked, glancing up to peer through an open window at the milling throng of people.
"It's an estate matter. If I find who I want, and they can help me in turn, it might make somebody pretty rich."
"That's nice to hear. There's so much terrible news all the time, it gives a person heart to think there's going to be some happiness." She wiped her hands on a towel and crossed to the back door. "Let's see if we can find Father for you now."
I followed her outside. We went down some stairs and onto an expanse of lawn nearly the size of the parking area in front. There were picnic tables and lawn furniture scattered here and there and burning lamps on poles stabbed into the ground. Off to one side was a large barbecue grill over a bed of charcoal, and near that a plank table being used as a bar. People were standing around talking and drinking and singing and engaging in horseplay. On a slope above, half a dozen persons were sailing Frisbees. She led me across to a cluster of older people and touched the arm of a large man with deep-set eyes and a dark beard flecked with gray. He was dressed similarly to his wife in a plaid shirt and bib overalls.
"Father, this man would like to talk to you. He came up all the way from San Francisco."
The man turned and extended a large hand. His other dwarfed a can of beer. "Howdy, I'm Mike Parsons. Big Mike, they call me." He honked a short laugh.
"Nice to meet you. My name's Peter Bragg."
"Did Minnie offer you a drink?"
"Oh goodness, Father, I didn't have time. I still have chores to do back in the kitchen."
"What'll you have?" Parsons asked, leading me over to the drinking table.
"I'll have a beer."
"How about something to eat? We got some real man-sized steaks."
"Thanks, but I had a sandwich on the road."
"Too bad. You'd have done us a favor getting outside some of the grub. These people here don't know how to eat. God a'mighty, back in Nebraska, Iowa—back there you sit down to a noon meal and can watch those old boys stoke in more than these folks eat all week."
"You're from the Midwest, Big Mike?"
"That's right, and damn glad to have it behind me too. Help yourself in the tub there."
Beside the table was a washtub filled with water, ice and cans of beer. I popped open one as a yell came from the direction of the Frisbee players and one of the discs plopped to the ground nearby. Parsons picked it up and with a little flick of his hand sent it sailing back to the players.
"Goddamnedest toys—never even seen one 'til I moved to California. What was it you wanted to see me about?"
"I'm looking for a man who's been left some money, and I'm having a hard time finding him. I learned he has a friend he went to school with in Santa Barbara, probably an artist, living up here now. I don't know if it's a man or a woman, but he or she is probably in their middle twenties. I spoke to Huggins at the art store in town, and he sent me out here."
"We do have a lot of people around here in that age group. Where they come from, though, I couldn't tell you. I try not to pry, myself. Artists are a funny bunch, you know? They got all this stuff inside their heads." He made a little churning motion in the air. "Makes for some pretty creative stuff, but it can mess up their personal lives something awful. They seem determined, a lot of them, to kill themselves or get hooked up with the wrong mate or messed up with booze. I've seen it happen so often it makes me sick to heart. That's why I try to help out some, with the serious ones, you know. It's one of the reasons we ask all these folks out for a big party every now and then."
"Do you paint, Mr. Parsons?"
"Naw, hell, not really. The talent I got you could stick in your belly button. But I've always been interested in art. I've..." He made another swipe at the air, as if it might help unblock the words. "I admire the people who can do that sort of thing, and I know what's going on inside them. When I see paint on canvas, even some of this modernistic stuff that don't make sense to lots of folks, well, I can see where it come from and what it is they're trying to do. God, I get the biggest kick out of it." He looked around until he found a trash carton, tossed his empty beer can in it and went to the tub for another.
"It excites me, I guess that's what I'm trying to say."
"Too bad you don't work at it yourself, feeling the way you do."
"Who knows, maybe I'll get back to it one day. Used to some when I was a kid, but then I had my own business for years, back in Omaha. It didn't leave me time for doin' much besides working my tail off from sunup to midnight or after. Come on along. I'll try to get the gang's attention for you."
He led me to the center of the yard and shouted to get the crowd quieted. When he did I told my little story, saying I was looking for a person who had gone to UC Santa Barbara four or five years earlier.
"If you're the person I'm looking for, you've got a friend who's coming into a lot of money. You'd be doing him a big favor by identifying yourself."
There was a lot of head turning, but nobody volunteered anything.
"I went to UCLA," said a young fellow in a T-shirt and Levi's pants. "And I could sure use a rich friend."
"I'm pretty certain the person I'm looking for went to Santa Barbara," I called out. "Let me tell you the name of the lucky young man getting the money. He was supposed to have been in the area a couple of weeks ago. Maybe his friend introduced him to one of you. He's Jerry Lind."
Still nothing from the crowd. I turned back to Parsons. "I guess I should have known it wouldn't be this easy."
The boy from UCLA joined us, searching the crowd. "How about Allison?" he asked of nobody in particular. "She's from Southern California."
"Did she go to school in Santa Barbara?"
"I'm not sure. But I saw her around just a bit ago."
An older man nearby removed a pipe from his mouth. "I saw her and Joe Dodge talking earlier. They might have wandered off together someplace."
I looked around the edges of the crowd but didn't see any strolling couples. "Maybe I'll get lucky after all," I told Parsons. "Mind if I hang around until they return?"
"Heck, no. And help yourself to whatever you'd like. I'm going in to give Minnie a hand."
He turned and ambled back toward the house. I went over to the boy from UCLA. "Who's Allison?"
"Oh, probably about the best-looking girl in Mendocino County, is all. At least that's what most of us fellows in Mendocino County think."
"Your girl?"
"No, she doesn't go out much with guys. She's pretty dedicated. Probably turns out and sells more work than anyone else around."
"She isn't married, then."
"No, so there's always hope, we like to think, on full moon nights and other odd moments. But now you can see for yourself. That's her and Joe coming now."
The couple approached along a path from the wooded slopes above. They were carrying on an animated conversation.
"She and Joe Dodge pretty good friends?"
"Yeah," said the boy. "Sort of like brother and sister. Or father and daughter." He pursed his lips. "And sometimes like mother and son." He shrugged. "They seem to have known each other for a couple of lifetimes."
As the two of them drew nearer, I could appreciate how the fellows in Mendocino County felt. She was a tall girl, five feet eight or nine inches, with a pretty face, full lips and a mane of blonde hair that tumbled halfway down her back. She was wearing brown Levi's, but the way she carried herself made me suspect she had grand looking legs. She also wore a tan jacket hanging open over a T-shirt with the legend "Lodi Buckeyes" printed across its front. She was taller than her friend. He was an intense, narrow-featured man smoking a cigarette who walked with his eyes to the ground. His face was worn down some from living. They were within hearing distance when Joe Dodge's mouth sliced sideways in a loose smile at something the girl had said.
"I'll try," he told her, raising one hand. "But now I need a drink."
The girl slowed and watched her friend cross to the makeshift bar. She didn't seem very happy about what she saw, or maybe what she remembered.
"Allison?" called the young man from UCLA.
"Yes, Benny."
"This gent here's from San Francisco. You might be the one he's looking for. Can'
t say's I blame him."
The girl gave him a smile that brought up the temperature of the night air. Benny threw her a kiss and trotted up to the Frisbee toss.
"I'm Peter Bragg, Miss..."
"France. Allison France." She offered her hand for a firm clasp. It matched the pleasant, warm tones of her voice.
"I think Benny's in love with you, Miss France. He says you cast the same spell over most of the male population hereabouts."
"It's not really love, Mr. Bragg. It has to do with the face and the body I happened to be born with. I try not to let it interfere with my life."
What she said might have been true, but I could tell she spent a little time on upkeep as well.
"Benny said you wanted to see me?"
"Maybe. He said you're from Southern California."
"That's right."
"Did you go to school in Santa Barbara?"
"Yes, half a dozen years ago."
"And did you know a young man there named Jerry Lind?"
She hesitated, then replied calmly, "Yes."
"Did you see him here in Barracks Cove two weeks ago?"
She took a breath deep enough to bring the Lodi Buckeyes to life. "I'm afraid, Mr. Bragg, I now am going to have to fall back on that tired old phrase and ask what this is all about."
"He's missing, Miss France. His sister hired me to look for him. I'm a private investigator. I talked to a girl in San Francisco who said she got a call from him about the time he dropped out of sight. He was phoning from here on a Monday night, a full day after anybody else I've talked to had seen or heard from him. That led me, eventually, to you."
