by Janet Dawson
Becca looked shocked. “Disappeared? What happened?”
“He left home Friday.” I summarized the story. “So, why aren’t you surprised about the fire at Newman’s Marina?”
Becca looked at me as though she was wondering what the marina had to do with Brian’s disappearance. “Have you ever seen Newman’s Marina?”
“No, can’t say that I have.”
“It’s a marina and a roadhouse,” Lance said.
“It’s an eyesore and a mess,” Becca said. “The guy who owns it doesn’t keep up the place. I’m not surprised they had a fire. He’s got oil, paints, solvents, propane, and God knows what else piled around the place. All that crap is contaminating the river. The roadhouse is a biker hangout. Word is, you can buy all sorts of drugs out there. The sheriff’s department is out there constantly, dealing with fights.”
“Walt Newman is a crusty old guy, that’s for sure.” Lance smiled and looked at me. “I’m a Petaluma native. My grandfather used to tell me stories about Newman’s. The place had quite a reputation during Prohibition, lots of bootlegging and some prostitution.”
“It still has a bad reputation,” Becca said. “I wish the county would shut him down. Maybe we will, with the protests about the land deal.”
“What land deal?” I asked.
“There’s a parcel for sale on the river south of the marina,” Lance added. “It was owned by a farmer who died. His heirs want to sell it to the highest bidder. Old Man Newman’s trying to buy it, to expand his operations. But the local environmental organizations are putting up roadblocks.”
“We’re putting together a bid,” Becca said. “We want to preserve that land as wetlands and wildlife habitat.”
“So the environmental groups are in the way of Mr. Newman’s plans,” I said.
“Mostly in court and through public opinion,” Becca said. “Which reminds me, Lance. I want you to look at this op-ed piece I wrote for the newspaper.”
She set her straw bag on Lance’s desk and began rummaging. She pulled out a file folder. Something else tumbled out of the purse as well, a packet of note cards and envelopes tied with a blue ribbon that was caught on the corner of the folder. The cards spilled onto the desk and the floor. I leaned over to pick up a few of the cards, then sat up in the chair and examined them. They were ivory card stock, decorated with sketches of birds. One was an Anna’s hummingbird, another a great blue heron, a third a spotted towhee, and the fourth scene showed a yellow-rumped warbler. This was the same card Brian had received, with a note from “Willow.”
“Pretty cards,” I said, handing them to Becca. “Where did you get them?”
“At a gallery up in Occidental.” Becca stuffed the cards and envelopes back into her purse and handed the file folder to Lance. “If you could read this and give me your feedback.”
“Sure.” He set the folder on his desk. “Is there anything else we can help you with, Jeri?”
“One other question. Do either of you know someone named Willow?”
Something flickered in Becca’s hazel eyes, I was sure of it.
“Not that I recall,” Lance said. “Who’s Willow?”
“I’m not sure.” I turned to Becca. “Do you know who Willow is?”
Becca shook her head, her amethyst earrings swaying. “No, I don’t.”
I didn’t believe her.
Nine
As Lakeville Street heads east out of Petaluma, it becomes California Highway 116, or the Lakeville Highway. A few miles out of town, Highway 116 continues toward Sonoma, and the Lakeville Highway turns south along the river.
The Petaluma River is about eighteen miles long. Its headwaters rise near Cotati, a town northwest of Petaluma. The river becomes a tidal slough, emptying into San Pablo Bay, in the northernmost reaches of the larger San Francisco Bay. Lakeville is an unincorporated community located about four miles southeast of Petaluma, on a stretch of road that runs close to the river. The terrain here is open, with few trees. Farmhouses dot the terrain to the east, while to the west, between the road and the river, are sprawling hayfields and high marsh full of pickleweed.
I passed the fire station for the Lakeville Volunteer Fire Department. In a mile or so, I reached Lakeville. There wasn’t much to it, a collection of buildings, some commercial, others homes, cabins really. A quarter mile further south I saw a wooden sign reading NEWMAN’S. I slowed my car and turned right into a gravel parking lot.
Newman’s Roadhouse and Marina was situated on a low bluff overlooking the Petaluma River. The place looked as disreputable as Becca had said. The weathered wood exterior of the one-story building had once been painted blue, but now the paint was cracked and peeling. The front of the building faced the road, with a covered porch made of wood planks. On the left was the roadhouse part, with neon signs advertising beer and burgers. It was late afternoon and there were half a dozen Harleys clustered in front. Several rough-looking bikers lounged in the metal lawn chairs on the front porch. As I got out of my car, they gave me the eye.
The right side of the building looked like the marina office. I took the two steps up to the porch and tried the front door. It was locked. I peered through the grimy window and didn’t see any movement inside.
That left me with the roadhouse. I walked along the porch, past a couple of bikers smoking and talking in low tones, and went into the bar. After the bright August sunshine, it took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to the darkness inside. I saw three men and two women clustered around a table, and two more men playing pool at a table near the back. A dark-haired woman dressed in jeans and a tank top was at the bar, sipping on a beer and eating onion rings. She was chatting with the bartender, who was tall and bulky, with an array of tattoos snaking down each arm. He looked as though he could break up any fights and take on all comers.
“Help you?” he asked as I stepped up to the bar.
“I’m looking for Walt Newman.”
“Not here,” the bartender said. “Don’t know where he is or when he’ll be back.”
I handed him a business card. “It’s about that boat that burned here at the marina early Sunday morning.”
He examined the card. “Private eye, huh. Insurance claim?”
“I do a lot of insurance work,” I said. Which was true, though I wasn’t handling the claim on this particular boat.
The bartender set the card on the counter next to the cash register. “Well, you’re gonna have to pay the claim on that boat. It’s a goner.”
“Just talking to people, to get a handle on what happened.”
The bartender shrugged. “I didn’t see anything but I sure as hell heard it. We’re open till two in the morning. Must have been about one when it happened. Propane explosion. That’s what they say.” He turned to the woman, who’d been listening. “What about you, Francie? Did you see anything?”
“Yeah, I was outside, on the dock by Barney’s boat.” Francie tossed back her long brown hair. “Heard a bang and that sucker went up. It made all the docks and boats rock and roll. People came running with hoses and buckets. Tried to put out the fire but it was burning like crazy. Didn’t do any good till the fire department showed up. It’s a wonder those other boats didn’t catch fire. The dock’s burned, too. They found a body.” She shuddered. “Burned to death like that. What a way to go.”
“Yes, I know about the body. Did you see or hear anything before the explosion?” I asked.
Francie shook her head. “It was a party, music playing, people talking, you know how it is. I didn’t hear anything until the boat exploded. Like I said, I was at Barney’s boat and it’s tied up at the south end of the marina. The boat that burned was at the north end.”
“I heard something.” One of the pool players had left the table. Now he joined us at the bar, listening to the conversation. He was a short guy with a blond ponytail, wearing leathers and a vest that proclaimed his motorcycle club membership. “I was out in the parking lot, smoking. Right before the e
xplosion, I heard something sounded like a backfire, either a car or a bike. Sounded to me like it was up at the north end. Maybe there was a spark and that’s what set off the propane.”
Backfire, or gunshot? My guess was that people assumed the man had died from the explosion or fire. His death by gunshot wasn’t yet commonly known.
The bartender was shaking his head. “No, propane would need something direct to ignite like that. Had to be a leak in the cabin. The guy that got killed, I’ll bet he stepped inside and fired up a cigarette. That would set off the propane.”
“I’ll know more when I see the report,” I said. Or maybe Walt Newman could tell me more, when I caught up with him.
“You should talk with the guy who lives in the cabin at the north end,” Francie said. “Chet something-or-other. What’s his name?”
“Olsen,” the guy with the ponytail said. “Chet Olsen. Yeah, his cabin is closest to that dock. That’s number twelve. If anybody saw anything before the boat went up, it would be him.”
“Thanks. Mind if I have a look around?”
“Suit yourself,” the bartender said. “I’ll give your card to Walt when he shows up.”
I left the bar and walked down past the marina office, then around to the rear of the building. A narrow gravel road led down a slope to a cluster of cottages and cabins, people who lived here at the marina. Narrow elevated walkways fanned out across the marsh and the shallows, leading to a series of wider docks that paralleled the river’s bank.
I counted fourteen boats tied up at slips, a mixture of sailboats, cabin cruisers, and catamarans. In a wide area edged by marsh, I saw several boats that were on racks, or dry-docked, evidently for repairs. Cans of paint and solvents were piled haphazardly near a shed, along with ropes, broken parts and sections of boat. An overflowing plastic trash can held rags that smelled of gasoline.
I walked north, past a boat launch ramp. There were several cabins of varying sizes, some better maintained than others. I came to the end of the marina, where cabin twelve sat, about forty feet from the walkway that led to the dock, which was some distance from the other docks, secluded from the rest of the marina by some trees. Here were two more boats, tied up at this dock where the wooden planks were charred and scorched. The boat that had burned was gone, hauled off by the authorities, or the owner. The two remaining boats were both cabin cruisers, both looking fairly new. One was called the Rosarita and the other, the Silverado. Both had a dusting of ash from the fire. I got out my cell phone, which had a camera, and snapped several pictures of the boats, making sure to get the names and hull identification numbers. I took photos of the damaged dock as well.
The Petaluma River shimmered in the afternoon sun. The river was wide here, with nothing on the other side except marsh. I spotted a great blue heron, standing like a sentinel in the reeds upstream. A snowy egret flew overhead and landed near the heron, then they moved slowly through the shallows, heads craned downward as they searched the water for food. One of them struck downward and came up with a fish wriggling in its beak. Then it swallowed the fish, stretching its neck upward as the meal went down its gullet.
I turned from the river and walked to the front door of cabin twelve. I knocked but there was no answer. I’d have to come back to see if I could talk with Chet Olsen about what he might have seen the night of the fire.
I retraced my steps to my car, feeling tired. No wonder, it had been a hell of a day. But I had a couple of stops, and phone calls, to make before returning home.
I looked through my phone’s contacts for my cousin, Donna Doyle. She’s a biologist—and a warden for the California Department of Fish and Wildlife. A few years ago, she’d been in the department’s Central Region, which included Monterey and its environs. After that, she transferred to the North Central Region, working from the Sacramento area. Last year, she’d transferred again, to the Bay–Delta Region, which included counties from Santa Cruz in the south to Sonoma and Napa counties in the north, all the densely populated counties of the greater Bay Area, and the extensive Delta at the confluence of the San Joaquin and Sacramento Rivers. The regional office was located in Napa, with a second office in Stockton, on the Delta.
She didn’t spend a lot of time in her office. She was usually out in the field. She answered after the third ring. “Agent Doyle.”
“Hi, Donna. This is Jeri. What are you up to?”
“Looking for a poacher, up by Cazadero. But I’m heading back to the office now.”
“You’re in Sonoma County? So am I.”
“Where?”
“Lakeville,” I said. “South of Petaluma.”
“I just passed Cotati heading toward Petaluma, cuz. Let’s get some coffee and talk.”
“Yes, I do need to talk.”
Donna picked up on something in my voice. “What’s going on? I heard your mom went out of town yesterday. Something about a family emergency.”
The family grapevine knew about my mother’s sudden departure from Monterey, but so far didn’t know the reason.
“Brian’s missing.” After Donna’s shocked exclamation, I filled her in on the story.
“Hell’s bells,” Donna said. “Listen, I’m almost to Petaluma. Meet me at the Petaluma Pie Company. I’m in the mood for something sweet.”
Ten
Donna was waiting for me outside the pie store near downtown’s Putnam Plaza Park, a small green oasis fronted by shops. It was just a few blocks from the real estate office where I’d met Lance Coverdell earlier in the afternoon.
Donna’s father is my mother’s older brother. Our extensive family tree is a mixture of Irish and Italian immigrants, the Doyles and Ravellas, and their offshoots are spread all over Monterey County. They had been in the area for over a hundred years. The Ravellas, from Sicily, were fishermen. The Doyles had migrated from Ireland at the time of the Great Famine, as had so many Irish Americans. They worked the canneries in Monterey and helmed small businesses.
My cousin is three inches shorter and three years older than I am, which means she’s thirty-nine. Donna takes after the Doyle side of the equation. She is fair, with blue eyes, a round face and a snub nose, liberally dusted with freckles.
Since she spends a good deal of time outdoors, she is tanned and fit in her uniform, which has dark green trousers and a khaki shirt with a blue-and-gold patch showing the state of California divided into counties, with the state symbol, a golden bear. The belt around her waist contains, among other things, a gun.
As a warden with the California Department of Fish and Wildlife, Donna is tasked with protecting the state’s wildlife and natural resources. She enforces laws relating to hunting, fishing, pollution, endangered species, and wildlife habitation destruction, and as such, she’s an armed law enforcement officer with statewide arrest authority. Typically she drives a state pickup truck, but she might also be found on anything from a horse to a boat to a helicopter or plane. She investigates crimes, like the poaching case she was working on now, collecting evidence and building a case. She also serves search warrants and arrests criminals. In addition to the entire state of California, Donna and her colleagues also have responsibility for the ocean 200 miles off the coast.
When I was in Monterey on vacation a few years back, Donna had gotten me involved in a case that involved pelican mutilations. It soon widened to include toxic waste dumping in Monterey Bay and a local murder.
“Hey, Jeri.” She greeted me with a hug. We went inside the pie shop and ordered. Since it was the start of apple season, the choice was clear—apple pie for both of us. “Put some ice cream on mine,” Donna told the server.
“Sounds good. Me, too,” I said.
We paid the tab and carried our pie and coffee to a nearby table. “You should come over to Napa,” Donna said. “You haven’t seen our new house. Kay’s really had a great time decorating it.”
Kay is Donna’s partner. They’ve been together for a number of years and recently got married. When Donna transfe
rred, they had sold their house in the Sacramento area and bought another on the outskirts of Napa. Kay makes jewelry. She sells her creations to stores and online, and sometimes at arts and crafts fairs.
“I’d love to see both of you. But it will have to wait.” I cut off a bit of my apple pie. It was delicious, particularly drenched with melting vanilla ice cream.
“Yeah, I’m really busy these days. This damn poacher.” Donna grimaced. “The guy keeps slipping through my fingers, but I’ll catch up with him soon. He’s working up north of Guerneville, near Cazadero, killing deer, wild pig, whatever he can find. I just wrapped another case, some guys growing marijuana on state park land.”
“Again? You told me you caught a pot grower last year, doing the same thing.”
“Yeah, second time in two years. Same situation, different location. This most recent case was at Robert Louis Stevenson State Park in Napa County, north of Calistoga. These guys were clear-cutting the forest, grading the land to put in more plants, and damming a creek to divert water. You wouldn’t believe the damage. Killing wildlife, toxic chemicals, trash everywhere. It just makes me crazy.” Donna sounded equal parts disgusted and righteously indignant.
“That case last year was at Annadel State Park east of Santa Rosa, smaller plantation, but certainly the same kind of environmental damage. And who foots the bill to restore the land? The taxpayers. The bastard who had the pot plantation at Annadel got a slap on the wrist, because he had a slick lawyer. That’s not gonna happen this time. I’ve got a good, solid case.” She swallowed coffee and leaned toward me. “So what’s the deal with Brian? He was due home Sunday and he didn’t show?”
I nodded, cutting off another section of pie. “It looks like he was planning to go camping. Some of his gear is missing.”
“If he went camping by himself, something must have happened to him,” Donna said. “Car trouble, an injury, no cell phone service.”
