by Susan Dunlap
St. Agnes’ Roman Catholic Church was nearly halfway to the Pacific Ocean. St. Elizabeth’s in Guerneville was closer to Henderson, but most of the fishing families had been parishioners of St. Agnes’ for generations. It was Father Calloway who blessed the fishing fleet. It was there that potluck dinners were organized to welcome the men back from the sea. And while the Ricollos and the Luccis, Michelle’s father’s family, no longer fished, St. Agnes’ was still their spiritual home.
Near the church the land flattened, beginning the transition from the steep tree- and fern-covered hills, which were so much a part of the Russian River area, to Pacific beachfront. Here the redwoods and eucalyptus grew farther back from the road. The underbrush thinned, replaced by grassy mounds. Small flocks of sheep grazed.
It was on one of these mounds that St. Agnes’ sat, its dark green wood unprotected from the strong ocean winds. A small plain church, it had been built when the living Maria Keneally was a girl. Climbing roses covered the west side, and a low garden of seasonal flowers was on the east. Behind the rectory was a vegetable plot, and it was there that I usually encountered Father Calloway while out on my route. In baggy corduroys and an old chamois shirt, both well coated with dirt, he was usually bending over bare soil. There was never a pea or bean in that garden. Either it was too early and he was just preparing the soil, or he had planted but nothing had come up yet, or the seedlings had broken the ground and the deer and groundhogs had eaten them. His gift to the less fortunate, he called it.
It was after seven o’clock as I pulled into the empty parking lot. I walked around the east side of the church, past the heat-wilted plants, to the rectory, knocked, and waited.
After a moment a middle-aged woman in an apron opened the door.
“I’m here to see Father Calloway,” I said.
“He’s gone off,” she said with a reinforcing nod of the head. “To see that poor family, you know.”
“When was that?”
“Five-thirty.”
“Do you expect him back soon then?”
“I’m sure I wouldn’t know. I’m just leaving, myself. I’m only a daily. Father Calloway doesn’t have a real housekeeper anymore, you see.” Her tone suggested that Father Calloway had come down in the world.
“I’ll wait.”
“As you wish. You can sit in his study, through here.” She stepped back and indicated a rather dark room on the left. “Tell him I left a casserole in the oven. All he needs to do is turn it on. Three hundred fifty degrees for an hour, tell him.”
“I will.”
She pulled the study door shut after her and in a moment I saw her clumping through the parking lot, her apron still in place like a uniform. There had been no car in the lot. Briefly I wondered how she got home.
The study had the obligatory bookcases and a desk by the window with a pair of wooden chairs facing it. The desk chair itself was padded and looked like a seat in which a priest could conjure uplifting thoughts hour after hour. Presumably, parishioners who had need to consult their priest were so unlikely to be comfortable that there was no sense wasting money padding their chairs. To the side of the desk on the west wall was a stone fireplace large enough to warm the room on the coldest day. Now the dark room was refreshingly cool.
I eyed the bookshelves but they held only ecclesiastical books, and in any case I was hardly in the frame of mind to read. I was just about to sit on one of the hard chairs when the study door opened.
Father Calloway was a small portly man with a round ruddy face, gray eyes, and thick white hair. No feature stood out, and there was something rather comforting about that. His was a face you could tell your problems to without dreading any sharp rejoinder. His black suit seemed oddly formal on him. And the smile that came so easily in his garden was an effort now.
“Vejay Haskell,” I said, extending a hand. “I’m your meter reader. But I’m not here on business, mine or yours,” I added almost automatically. “I want to ask you something. Oh, and your housekeeper told me that she left a casserole in the oven for you.”
“Ah, I’m sure she did.”
“I’ll wait while you put the oven on,” I said, sitting down.
Instead of heading for the kitchen, he settled in his chair. “Perhaps later. I can’t say I feel much like eating.” Sitting there with the evening light coming through the window behind him, he looked very weary.
“Michelle Davidson? Was it her family you were going to see?”
“Yes. Poor girl. Two small children, too.”
“I guess you knew her pretty well.”
“I did at that. Since she was a child. I’ve been the priest here for nearly twenty years. Lovely family the Riccolos. I knew Michelle’s mother, God rest her soul, and her aunt, Vida, and her boys. Michelle never missed a Sunday.”
“That’s unusual these days.”
“It is at that.”
It must be hard for him to comfort Craig and Vida and absorb his own grief, too, I thought. And my questions weren’t going to make this day any more pleasant for him. “It’s Michelle I came to ask about,” I said. “She was involved in the anti-prostitution group, wasn’t she?”
“She was. But why are you asking this when the poor girl’s not even in the ground?”
“I don’t think she stumbled into that sewer hole and died. She didn’t die because she was too drunk to walk straight. There’s more to it than that.”
He sat forward, his finger poised on the desk.
“Vida asked me to look into it.”
He nodded noncommittally.
“You were one of the last persons to see Michelle alive.”
He sank back. It was clear that, like Vida, he felt responsible for Michelle’s being downtown, where danger could overcome her.
“Tell me about this anti-prostitution group,” I said.
He sighed. “Michelle organized it. She asked me to help with it. Of course, I am expected to do what I can to stop that type of thing.”
“How many are in the group?”
“Let me see—Mrs. Perkins, Mrs. Bender, Mrs. O’Leary, um, um… Maybe eight or nine.”
“What possessed Michelle to start it?”
He sighed again. “To tell you the truth, I don’t know. She said the prostitutes walking around town with all their ill-gotten cash were a bad influence on the children. There’s no denying that. They do give the impression that prostitution is a glamorous way of life. A fancy blond in hot pants flaunting hundred-dollar bills looks much more appealing to a teenage girl than her mother standing over the sink. But to answer your question, I don’t know if that was the total reason or not.”
“Eight people doesn’t seem like enough for a demonstration to be taken seriously.”
“Well, normally you would be right, but in this case it wouldn’t have mattered. There’ll be plenty of other demonstrators outside the Grove—anti-nuclear people, anti-military, environmentalists, those opposing contracts with South Africa, and so on. We would have been just one more group blending in. When the television reporters interviewed Michelle…well, they won’t be doing that, will they?”
I waited a moment. “Did you know Ross Remson?”
“A bad one, that boy,” he said without pause for thought. As soon as the words were out he looked regretful.
“Not one of your congregation then?”
“Yes and no. The boy was baptized here. Before my time that was. His sister the year after. But they never came to Mass, none of them, the children or the mother. And the father wasn’t of the faith.”
“It’s odd they were baptized, then.”
“Not so uncommon as you might think. A mother feels guilty when she’s married outside the Church, particularly to a man like Leo Remson.” Seeing my questioning look, he said, “Leo played around and drank in the early years. Eventually he pulled himself together, but by then it was too late for his missus. Her nerves were never strong. Too much responsibility. But she did get the children baptized. She
exerted her will those two times. Perhaps it was all she could do. Perhaps she hoped baptism would protect the children, like inoculations.”
“It doesn’t sound like it did.”
“Maybe some day. The ways of the Lord…”His voice trailed off. “But the girl went off to college and came back with a husband much like her father. And Ross, well, he was wild.”
“You did see them then?”
“The girl I don’t think I ever spoke to, but Ross came to some of the Saturday night dances here. We have them in the winter. I think the girl felt awkward coming here to dance and not to Mass. But the boy, Ross, he had no sense of shame. He walked through the door like he had been here every Sunday, came up and greeted me by name, just as if he knew me. Of course, I didn’t say anything. You don’t get them in here by reminding them they’ve been remiss.”
“Is this where he met Michelle?”
“Oh, I’d hate to think we were responsible.” Again he looked appalled that the deprecatory thought had slipped out.
“Was he a bad influence on her?” I asked, curious to see how widely known Ross’s effect on Michelle was.
He hesitated. “I suppose since I’ve said that much I should make my thoughts clear.”
I waited.
“He was. Always wild, that boy. Always on the edge of trouble, always able to keep from slipping over even if those who were with him weren’t so skillful. There were a number of car thefts and joy rides that were never solved when Ross was in high school. He was doing them, but there was never the proof to arrest him.”
That would fit with the Ross who had moved to San Francisco and found “friends” so menacing that he’d decided to disappear from sight. I said, “I understand Ross was what was called ‘the Bohemian Connection.’ That seems a bit out of your purview, but I rather hoped you might be able to tell me about that.” The question was a long shot. I didn’t know whether Father Calloway would even recognize the term “Bohemian Connection.”
“You’d be surprised what I do know,” Father Calloway said. “It’s not that people tell me, at least not that they intend to enlighten me. But they do mention parts of stories, and they talk among themselves when I’m nearby. And the children, of course, repeat anything. I have a lot of time to fit the parts together. You learn to do that when you’re called upon to counsel people. It gets easier, maybe too easy. Concern becomes curiosity, even nosiness.”
“So you do know about the Bohemian Connection?”
“Its existence is no secret, or maybe it’s more accurate to say it’s a very poorly kept secret. There’s always been a Connection. Before Ross, I don’t know who did it. The identity usually has been hidden.”
“Who inherited the job from Ross?”
“Now that I don’t know.”
“Michelle?”
“Oh no. She was a lovely girl. She had a good life, a fine husband, two beautiful children. Everything she wanted. She would never have thought of anything like that.”
Suddenly the limitations of this man struck me. Was he constrained by his doctrine to believe that marriage and motherhood had to be enough? Was he unaware that Michelle Davidson looked for causes to give some meaning to her life?
“You drove Michelle back from the meeting last night. You let her off downtown. How did that happen?”
“We were talking about, let me see, ah, yes, the altar flowers. The altar guild should be taking care of them but in the summer they do get a bit forgetful. Michelle mentioned that last Sunday’s flowers were looking limp. And then, in the middle of her sentence, she said, ‘Let me out!’ Just like that.”
“Is that all she said?”
“It is, almost. She said, ‘There’s…’ as if she were going to name someone. Then she just said, ‘Let me off here.’ ”
“But you said she got off to meet a man. How do you know it was a man?”
“I saw them walk into the bar.”
“Was that man Ross Remson?” I could feel myself holding my breath.
“I never thought about Ross.”
“But you did see the man?”
“Only as he was turning to go inside the bar. But, yes, it could have been Ross Remson. He was the same size; he had the same color hair. Indeed it could have been. I just never thought of Ross. He’s been gone so many years. But, indeed, it could have been.”
“You knew Ross. Would you think it was possible for him to push Michelle into the sewer hole hard enough to kill her?”
He stared, shocked. It was a moment before he said, “I haven’t seen Ross Remson in years. I can hardly make such a damning statement.”
“But if they’d both had enough to drink, argued, and then he shoved her hard and she fell, would you be surprised to discover that he had left her there?”
“Sad to say, no, I wouldn’t be surprised.”
CHAPTER 8
IT WAS AFTER SEVEN o’clock. Vida would be at Craig’s house. She would think Michelle’s death was due to a drunken fall. She would blame herself for not driving Michelle to her door.
I drove back quickly toward Henderson on River Road. Once in Henderson, River Road became North Bank Road. Outside the town limits it reverted to River Road. There had been debates over the years on whether Henderson should change the name of North Bank Road to conform to the area. But conformity was never popular here, and North Bank Road survived.
In winter not a week went by without reports of speeders or drunks smashing into trees along River Road, but now it was impossible to shift out of second gear. The redwood, eucalyptus, and acacia branches made a canopy over the road. I drove ridiculously close to the station wagon ahead of me, somehow assuming that getting to Vida a second or two earlier would make a difference.
When I arrived at the Davidsons’ house half an hour later, Vida answered the door. Behind her I could see Craig slumped in one of the director’s chairs. She started to speak, then burst into tears.
“It’s not your fault, Vida,” I said. “Really it isn’t.”
She stepped back, still sobbing. “If I’d picked her up…”
“It’s not your fault. I’ll explain.”
“I was annoyed with her. That was it. I couldn’t admit it. If I’d been honest, maybe—”
“Vida, nothing you could have done would have changed what happened. You could have driven her to her doorstep and she would still be dead now.”
She wiped her eyes and stared at me.
“Father Calloway dropped her downtown because she saw a man she knew. That man was probably Ross Remson.”
“Ross!”
“Yes. I saw him here this morning, behind Ward’s house. And he was here this afternoon after Michelle’s body was taken away. He was behind the house. I tried to follow him but I lost him. Father Calloway thinks the man downtown was Ross.”
“But after all this time, why would Ross come back?”
“That I don’t know. But you do realize, don’t you, Vida, that if Michelle saw Ross, nothing would have kept her from going downtown after him. It wouldn’t have mattered whether Father Calloway dropped her there or you brought her home. She would have walked downtown after you left.”
“But she might not have seen him.”
“Maybe not then. Maybe later. But she would have heard he was in town. If he didn’t contact her, she would have found him. Isn’t that right?”
Vida didn’t respond immediately, but when she did it was with a nod. Then she sobbed again, wiping the tears away as fast as they came. “Oh, Vejay, I’m so relieved. It’s been awful. You just don’t know. I felt so bad. I shouldn’t feel better now, I know, but I do.”
We stood there a moment, still at the door, before Vida motioned me in and to the empty director’s chair. Craig had been close enough to hear our conversation, but if any of it registered he gave no indication. He slumped forward in the chair, staring at the floor. He looked like the African violet the man in the filthy workshirt had been buying from him this afternoon.
�
�Craig,” I said, “I’m sorry.”
“Urn.” He didn’t look up. He seemed so deadened to emotion that I doubted much of anything would elicit a reaction from him.
Vida sat on her heels on the rug facing us. She adjusted the toes of one foot then the other. To deal with sorrow and anxiety Vida needed to be cleaning a cupboard, scrubbing a floor, or walking the steepest PG&E route in Henderson. Sitting in one place offered her no escape.
“The reason I came here when I knew you’d both be so upset is that I don’t believe Michelle’s death was an accident,” I said.
In one move Vida stood up. Craig lifted his head.
I continued. “I think Michelle was hit on the head and then thrown into the sewer hole. I don’t think she was just so drunk she stumbled in. A woman who could walk backwards on her deck railing wouldn’t just fall flat on her back. Her balance was too good.”
Vida nodded. “She was state champion on the balance beam. And Vejay, Michelle knew how to fall. She knew to pull her knees in and roll.”
“The sheriff doesn’t agree that Michelle was murdered,” I said. “He doesn’t disagree, but he’s waiting till the medical reports are in—a couple of days probably—before he commits any manpower to this.”
“Well, maybe that’s sensible,” Craig said. His words were sluggish.
“Days!” Vida paced in short deliberate steps from the fireplace to the wall. “In days, the murderer could be gone, the sewer hole will be filled in, and every clue will be trampled. What does the sheriff have to do that’s more important than finding out who killed Michelle? Who does he think pays his salary? If he isn’t here to protect the residents—”
“I agree with you,” I said, relieved that Vida’s and probably Craig’s attention was on the murderer rather than wondering how Michelle must have felt —angry? terrified?—as she was struck on the head. “But the sheriff’s really pressed right now. No matter what we think, there’s no real proof Michelle was murdered. The sheriff’s not going to do anything now.”
“But you will, won’t you, Vejay?” she demanded.
“If you want me to.” I looked from Vida to Craig. He had returned to staring at the floor. “Craig?”
