by Susan Dunlap
“My taste for Anchor Steam Beer’s gotten more firmly entrenched since I’ve been here,” I said. “Meter reading is thirsty work. Like sheriffing, I imagine.”
“Yes, but it doesn’t look good for the sheriff to be guzzling beer all day. And it’s not that easy, anyway. If you’ll notice, no one is sitting at the tables around us. A sheriff is not a welcome sight in a bar.”
“Even out of uniform?”
“You’re never really out of uniform. If a fight broke out now I couldn’t just watch. So that really settles the question of sheriffs in bars; it’s as uncomfortable for us as it is for the other customers.”
“So how come you suggested coming here tonight?”
“I wanted a beer and I wanted to talk—to you.”
“Oh.” Wescott had a way of focusing in on the object of his attention that was at once flattering and unnerving.
“How did you get involved in the Davidson death?” He waited expectantly.
Despite our surroundings and his show of interest, I believed, as he had said, that he was never totally out of uniform. I wasn’t sure how much I wanted to tell the sheriff. “Michelle’s aunt, Vida, is a meter reader. She asked me to look into it.”
“Do you do whatever your colleagues ask you?” There was a touch of banter to his question.
“Vida’s our union rep. She’s the one who got me my pay back after they docked me for abusing sick leave, after you told Mr. Bobbs I had two drinks in a bar the day I called in sick!”
“That was an incidental in questioning him. You know I didn’t mean to cost you money.”
“I know. But Vida’s the one who prepared for the hearings to get it back. She put a lot of time into that. I owe her. And besides, I may need her again.”
He looked as if he expected more explanation.
“This morning,” I went on, “I was arguing with Mr. Bobbs about a suggestion I made. He didn’t want to deal with it, so he put it in a Follow-up folder. Do you know what that is?”
“No.”
“It’s legitimate procrastination. He dates a folder for whatever date he chooses, sticks whatever he wants to put off dealing with inside it, and gives it to the clerk. She doesn’t bring it back to his desk until that date.”
Wescott roared with laughter. A foursome seated two tables away stared. “That’s great!” Wescott said. “I’d kill for a mechanism like that. I’d put all my drunk driving reports in a folder for next year.”
“And the wonderful thing is that when they came back you could stick them right in another folder.”
He finished his beer. “So why are you going to need your union?”
“Either because I am not Mr. Bobbs’s favorite person and he may get tired of me bugging him, or because if he doesn’t act on my suggestion soon, I’m going to file a grievance. It’s a good suggestion. It’s to the benefit of the employees and the company, too.”
“What is it?”
I told him about the need for two-way radios.
“You’re right. If you knew as much about the area as I do you’d be even more convinced.” He looked directly at me, as if to reinforce his statement with his gaze.
The bar was filling up. Conversations began to blur into one indistinguishable rumble as the noise level rose. It was still early for the bar trade, but in another hour this place would be jammed. Conversation at any level would be a challenge.
Wescott took a long swallow of his beer. One mustache hair stood straight out beyond the wiry line of its compatriots. It caught on the rim of the glass. Wescott felt for it and pulled it out. Staring down at it, held between thumb and forefinger, he said, “I’d like to think you took my warning about steering clear of the Davidson woman’s death to heart, but you didn’t, did you?”
I started to speak, but he stopped me with a touch of the hand. “Vejay, suppose you are right and Michelle Davidson was murdered. Then, there’s a murderer here. First you find the body, then you announce you’re investigating, and then you plunk yourself right down in a hole where the murderer could do damn well as he pleased.”
“It was the middle of the afternoon.”
“And tonight when you go home, alone, it will be the middle of the night.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“I’m not trying to frighten you unnecessarily.”
I fingered my glass. “It sounds like you’re taking the possibility of murder more seriously than you were earlier.”
“What I told you is still true. I don’t know yet what caused her death. I think it was an accident. Everything points to that.”
“What about the position of the body?”
“Your theory that she wouldn’t fall backwards?”
“Yes. Michelle Davidson was a gymnast. She won a medal on the balance beam when she was in school.”
“That was eight or ten years ago.”
“But you don’t forget how to balance. It becomes nearly instinctive. And Michelle still practiced. Ward McElvey told me she walked on her deck railing—backwards! There’s a twenty-foot drop there.”
“That’s fine, but she was sober then. Guys around here can drive any vehicle from a motorcycle to a moving van when they’re sober. After a night of beer they crash their cars into the nearest tree.”
“It’s not the same. Michelle knew how to fall. She would never have landed flat on her back.”
Wescott took a long breath. “If you believe that, you’d be wise to be careful.”
“What about the bruise on her head?” I said, unwilling to have this very unsatisfactory discussion end with his warning. “Couldn’t that have come from her murderer hitting her before throwing her in the sewer hole?”
“It also could have come from hitting her head against the edge of the pipe when she fell. She was close enough.”
“Have they done an autopsy?”
“Not yet. It’s Friday night.”
“When, then?”
“Tomorrow,” he snapped. “Look, I don’t run the county. I don’t have the coroner jumping to whenever I want him.”
“Sorry,” I said. “I should understand that.”
He smiled. “Sure.”
“Have your next beer on me.”
“Is that a bribe?”
I signaled the waiter for another round and said to Wescott, “Just softening you up. Tell me about the Bohemian Connection.”
“I thought that was common knowledge. I’m surprised that you don’t know all about it.”
Unable to resist the challenge, I said, “There are the drugs, liquor, rendezvous, and so forth.”
“That’s it. Most of it’s small time, but well paid. Some people rent their places during Bohemian Week. It’s all under the table. A little tax-free income. Of course, they don’t tell us. We’ve burst in on one or two tête-à-têtes because we knew the houses were supposed to be empty—the owners informed us they were going to be gone for months but didn’t tell us about their Bohemian Week arrangement. And then there are the actual housebreakings.”
Thinking of Maria Keneally’s house, I asked, “For housebreaking, wouldn’t a place need to be secluded?”
“Right. The Connection knows the owner is away and just breaks in. Most of those places are back in the hills where the nearest neighbor is half a mile away. It’s rare to have a really secluded house near town. And the one thing the Connections have always been careful about is cleaning up afterwards. We don’t know how many houses they’ve used because we get only one or two complaints. In the other cases the Connection has put everything back to normal.”
“Except the broken window?”
“Well…” He shrugged. “Lots of people are careless. You wouldn’t need to break a window to get in.” He looked directly at me, tacitly suggesting that I knew more than the average woman about such things. “And a lot of windows get broken innocently. If a homeowner discovers a window broken but everything inside the house as he left it, he doesn’t call the sheriff, he calls a glazier.”
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br /> “Do you think the Bohemian Connection makes enough money to be worth killing for?”
The waiter arrived with our beers. Wescott swished a mouthful around and nodded solemnly in mock approval. He put the glass down and said, “Killing is like anything else, very individual. I doubt you or I would find the money worth a life, but then how much would you need to protect before you’d kill for it? For some folks that’s not much. But it’s rarely just money. There are other, stronger concerns. If Ross Remson were still the Connection and we were talking about him, I would say that the notoriety was more important than the cash.”
“Important enough to kill for?”
“I don’t know. But I also don’t think you should take the chance of finding out.” He paused. “Am I making myself clear?”
Ignoring that, I said, “Ross Remson was the Bohemian Connection until he left, right?”
“What?”
The noise level had risen. I leaned closer and repeated my question.
“That was before my time. There was never any proof, but the department knew Remson was the Connection.”
“Who took over when he left?”
“We don’t know. Remson was flamboyant. He wanted the attention of people suspecting him. Whoever came after has been much more low-key.”
“And it’s not a priority for you. Particularly if the Connection keeps a low profile.”
He didn’t answer, but I could tell from his irritated expression that I had touched on a sore spot.
“It could be a woman, couldn’t it?”
Now he smiled. “Are you considering moonlighting? You’ve got the perfect job for finding out what homes are empty and how long they’re going to be that way.”
“It could be a woman though, couldn’t it?”
His smile disappeared. “What are you after? Look, I asked you here as a friend. As a friend I warned you. I don’t want to see you end up in the space Michelle Davidson vacated this afternoon. I also don’t want to be pumped.”
I sighed. “I appreciate your concern, really. I know you’re aware of the dangers of this area. But I haven’t been racing around on the hottest day of the year, badgering people, because I had nothing better to do on my afternoon off. Michelle’s family deserves to have her murderer found. They need the question of how she died cleared up. If you would investigate Michelle’s death, I’d take your advice and spend the weekend on the beach.”
Wescott stared at me with the same iciness I recalled from the interrogation in his office in Guerneville. I looked away.
“Oh my god!”
“What?”
“That man, the one who just walked out of the bathroom, that’s Ross Remson.”
Wescott didn’t move.
“Aren’t you going to do something?”
“There’s no reason—”
I jumped up.
Wescott grabbed my arm.
“That’s Ross. Father Calloway saw him with Michelle last night. He was behind her neighbor’s house this afternoon. I’ve spent hours looking for him. Let me go.”
Still holding my arm, he said, “If you’re right, then this man is dangerous.”
Ross stood at the bar, his back to us.
“Are you going to let him get away because he might be dangerous?”
“Look—”
I jerked loose and started for the bar. “Ross,” I called.
Ross didn’t move.
I reached out to touch his shoulder.
Wescott pushed in front of me. He flashed his shield and grabbed Ross’s arm. “Sheriff’s Department. Come outside quietly, Remson.”
“Hey, wait!”
“I said outside.”
The bar was silent. No one moved.
“Officer, you’re making a mistake.”
“Outside!”
“Just let me talk, Officer.”
Wescott shoved him through the swinging doors. I followed.
“Hands up against the building. Spread your feet.” Wescott moved in behind him and patted him down. “No weapon,” he muttered.
“Listen, Officer. Listen to me. You’re making a mistake. Look at my driver’s license. My name is David Sugarbaker.”
CHAPTER 11
I HAD HEARD ABOUT pockets in time, and the concept that time could be stretched like a rubber band, but rarely had a minute extended so long as the one after David George Sugarbaker handed his driver’s license to Sheriff Wescott. We stood in the alley next to the bar where Wescott had parked. At the edge of the sidewalk by North Bank Road a small crowd of onlookers formed, watching as Wescott called in for a make on the license.
The call came back after that minute. Sugarbaker was clean. And he was Sugarbaker, not Ross Remson.
Now that I could examine his face, the differences were obvious. Superficially he looked a lot like Ross—both were six feet tall, both had sandy hair that was just curly enough to notice—but Ross had a space between his front teeth and a sardonic look about him. Sugarbaker had neither. His teeth were even, his stance shaky. And his expression teetered between anger and fear. He looked like a dog who had soiled the parlor rug.
And Wescott looked like the dog’s owner. “How long have you lived at this address, Sugarbaker?” he demanded.
“Well, I guess you could say eight months.” His words weren’t slurred yet, but he wasn’t sober either.
“What do you mean, ‘you guess’? Don’t you know how long you’ve lived there? Maybe you don’t really live there?”
“I do. It’s just that I’ve lived there before. I didn’t know if you wanted that time too.”
“So you stayed there before, you moved away, and now you’re back, is that it?”
Sugarbaker glanced nervously at the crowd. “Yes,” he mumbled.
“What kind of place is this, Sugarbaker? What kind of people live there? Any the Sheriff’s Department knows?”
Sugarbaker didn’t say anything. I came close to praying his house was crammed with wanted felons. Only a discovery of that magnitude could rescue this fiasco.
“Who lives there?” Wescott repeated.
Sugarbaker’s voice was even lower than before. “My parents.”
“What?”
“I live with my parents. It’s just been since my divorce. It doesn’t cost much. I have my own entrance. It’s almost like an apartment.”
From the crowd behind me I could hear a few chuckles followed by the rumble of conversation.
Wescott spun toward them. “This isn’t a side show! Move along.” Turning back to Sugarbaker, he said, “Where are you staying locally?”
The crowd had broken up. Sugarbaker’s voice seemed louder as he said, “I don’t know. I was going to check in somewhere later. I thought about the Winding Road Inn.”
Wescott swallowed. “Well, Mr. Sugarbaker,” he said almost paternally, “let me give you a bit of advice. You’re not in any condition to drive that far. I’m sure you don’t want to be a danger on the road. You’d do much better to choose one of the quieter spots within walking distance, like Genelle’s.”
“Yessir.”
“Good.” As he turned back toward the car, Wescott had that condescending look of a lawman who has given the gift of a warning instead of a ticket. It was only when he turned to me that his fury was evident. And that was just for a split second. Then he climbed into his car and left.
Both Sugarbaker and I stood watching the car pull away. At least, I thought, he didn’t ask Wescott who he had mistaken him for. He was so nervous he seemed to have forgotten about that. He acted as if Wescott had a good reason to arrest him, as if he had something to hide—perhaps living with his parents.
He turned and stared down at me. “Fucking asshole!” he exclaimed. “What kind of place is this? Who does he fucking think he is? Dragging people out of public establishments with no reason.”
The transformation from the fearful, servile man of a minute ago was almost total. Now Sugarbaker did look like Ross Remson. His eyes had t
hat same crazed intensity, his jaw the same hard set.
“Who did he think I was anyway? Some punk? Somebody who’s going to upset the big shots here this weekend? Huh? Huh?”
I tried to decide how best to explain what had happened. Should I admit that it was my fault? That I was the one who mistook him for Ross? Would he be calmer for knowing that? Or would it make him even angrier to discover that it wasn’t even the sheriff who had made the mistake?
“False arrest! That’s it, false arrest!”
“You weren’t arrested.”
“Well, false imprisonment then.”
“False being yanked out of a bar?” I offered.
“What? Huh?” He looked down at me and the pugnacious set of his jaw eased. “God knows what that jerk would have done if you hadn’t been here.”
It took me a moment to realize that he hadn’t connected me with Wescott. There was no reason he should have. Before Wescott grabbed his arm we had been behind him, our conversation covered by the noise of the bar. After that he had other things to think about.
“Are you a reporter or something?” he asked me. “Or do you just keep a citizen’s watch on the sheriff?”
“Neither really.”
He paused, then smiled, a knowing look. “Just watching out for me then?”
“You remind me of someone,” I said.
He looked at once surprised, a bit deflated, yet curious. “You know you’re the second woman who’s said that.”
Surely he meant Michelle. She must have mentioned it to him last night. Despite the heat of the day it was chilly now. I pulled my sweater tighter around me.
“Cold, huh? Look, the least I can do is buy you a drink. I can sure use one after dealing with that jerk. Boy, can you believe that? Does that happen a lot here, that kind of harassment?”
