Cold Trail

by Janet Dawson

  It most definitely caught my eye as well. It looked just like the birdbath I’d seen in the book of photographs at Hestia Gallery.

  “I’ve seen the potter’s work before,” I said. “She calls herself Willow, though her real name is Martha Newman.”

  “Martha? Is that Walt Newman’s daughter?” Gladys asked. “The man that owns the marina and bar down in Lakeville?”

  “Yes. Do you know her?”

  “I know of her.” Gladys looked at Bruce. “Her mother was Arlene Hargis, Pete’s daughter. We’re related on my mother’s side. Mama was an Eklund, and Arlene’s mother was a Stenberg. They were cousins, Swedes from Minnesota. I don’t know what possessed Arlene to marry that Newman fellow. He’s an odd bird. They had two children, Martha and a boy a few years older. The marriage lasted longer than I thought it would, but eventually Arlene divorced Walt. She married a nice fellow named Kennett, and lived in Cotati. She died last summer, cancer, I think. And Pete died in January. I wonder what will happen to his ranch.”

  “Ranch?” I asked. “Where is it?”

  “What you’d call a farm, we call a ranch.” Pat waved her arm, encompassing the apple orchard. “So here we are on the Foxworth ranch.”

  “And the Hargis ranch is west of here,” Bruce said, “about midway between Graton and Occidental. About a hundred acres, half of it in apples. As for what’s going to happen to the ranch, Pete left it to his grandchildren.”

  “Martha and the boy,” Gladys said. “What was his name? Richard, that’s it. But he’s dead. Some sort of accident. It happened recently, last month or two. So the ranch belongs to Martha. If she’s making pots, I doubt she’s going to farm it. Probably sell out to some winery.”

  Bruce nodded. “She’s gotten several offers for the land.”

  I finished the last of the Pinot in my glass, remembering what the gallery owner had said about Willow moving recently.

  Then Bruce confirmed what I’d been thinking. “She moved into the house, built a kiln, and turned the barn into a workroom. Sounds like she plans to stay there.”

  Nineteen

  Pat invited me to stay for dinner, but I turned down the offer. I had a late-afternoon appointment in Cotati, with Steven Kennett, Willow’s stepfather.

  I spent some time talking with Aunt Dulcie, who got up from her nap and made her way out to the patio for a glass of wine. She looked much the same as she had when I’d last seen her, a couple of months ago. She was in her nineties, and I suspected she’d live to be a hundred. Of course, that’s what I’d hoped with my own grandmother. We never know what life has in store, or when death will take those we love.

  I left Pat’s house with a large bag of Gravensteins and a jar of homemade apple butter. When I reached the end of the gravel drive, I consulted my watch. I had an hour before my appointment with Kennett. So I turned left and drove west on Graton Road again, slowing and looking at road signs and mailboxes. Finally I saw a mailbox marked “Hargis,” and a small sign that read, HARGIS RANCH ROAD. PRIVATE PROPERTY.

  A gravel road led up a slope past an orchard where apples littered the ground. Bruce’s aunt had said Peter Hargis, the owner of the ranch, had died after Christmas, so there was no one to pick these August-ripening Gravensteins, or the other varieties farther up the slope, where trees were filled with fruit.

  My slow progress on the gravel road was stopped by a locked gate. This was as far as I could go. Some thirty yards away, through the trees, I saw a one-story house that looked as though it had been built in the nineteen-fifties. Visible behind the house was a barn roof.

  According to Bruce, Willow had recently moved from Occidental to this house on the property left to her by her grandfather. Though the property had been left jointly to Willow and her brother, Rick, his death in June would complicate the inheritance. He had probably died intestate, without a will.

  If he was dead at all. The fact that his body hadn’t been found after the motorcycle accident nagged at me.

  There were no vehicles parked near the house, so presumably Willow wasn’t there. I turned my car around and headed back down to Graton Road. I drove back through town, then headed south on Highway 116, through Sebastopol toward the small town of Cotati, located where 116 met Highway 101.

  Cotati is a small town to the south of Santa Rosa and Rohnert Park, where Sonoma State University is located. I found Steven Kennett’s house easily, on a quiet street on the east side of town. It was a well-kept one-story, wood frame ranch-style house, its front yard landscaped with native plants and grasses. I turned into the driveway and parked behind a Chevrolet.

  The front porch was a small concrete rectangle decorated with a clay pot planted with succulents. The front door was covered by a bronze steel screen door. When I rang the bell, I heard a dog barking inside the house, the sound getting closer as the dog ran to the door.

  The front door opened. A man peered out through the steel mesh. I guessed his age as late sixties or early seventies. He was about six feet tall, with short white hair and hazel eyes in a tanned, creased face that spoke of a life lived outdoors. He wore faded blue jeans and an orange T-shirt.

  The dog crowding in next to him was a Rottweiler, big with heavy shoulders and a sleek coat of black and mahogany. He barked at me and the man said, “Rowdy, sit.” The dog sat and looked at me, alert.

  “Mr. Kennett, I’m Jeri Howard. We spoke on the phone.”

  He nodded. “You said you’re a private investigator.”

  “Yes.” Earlier he’d agreed to talk with me, but now I wondered if he had changed his mind.

  “Okay,” he said. “Come on into the house. Don’t worry about the dog. He’s well-trained. Just let him get a good sniff.”

  Kennett opened the security door and motioned me inside. I stepped into the entry hall and held out my hand, palm up, taking it on faith that Rowdy wouldn’t take a bite out of my fingers. The Rottweiler gave me a thorough inspection with his large wet nose, starting with my hand and my arm. Then he moved to the legs of my slacks, which no doubt had Mabel’s hair all over them, as well of that of my two cats.

  “I was at my cousin’s house earlier,” I said. “She has a dog. And I have cats.”

  “That’s probably what he smells. I have a cat, too, so he’s used to them.”

  Rowdy decided I was all right and wagged his tail. I ventured an ear scratch and he enjoyed that.

  “You want a cup of coffee?” Kennett asked.

  “Yes, thanks.”

  I followed him as he walked through a living room–dining room combination. The living room contained several old china cabinets full of glass and silver, while the dining area containing a round oak table and matching chairs. Both rooms looked as though they weren’t used very often. The kitchen at the back of the house was spacious and certainly more lived-in, with a round table covered in yellow Formica. The kitchen opened onto a family room. A sliding glass door and screen led out to a patio with chairs and beyond that, a backyard with a vegetable garden and an apple tree loaded with ripening fruit. The door was open, admitting a slight breeze. Just in front of the screen, a big black-and-white tomcat was stretched out on his side on the beige tile floor, soaking up the late-afternoon sun. The cat opened one eye, looked at me, and then settled back into his nap.

  Kennett stepped over to the kitchen counter, reaching for a stainless steel thermal carafe. He poured each of us a mug of coffee. “You take anything in it?”

  “Black is fine.”

  He handed me one mug. I took a sip of the strong brew, while he doctored his own coffee with half-and-half from a carton in the nearby refrigerator. Then he led the way to the family room. A large-screen TV stood on a low stand against the wall opposite the kitchen, with a worn leather recliner and a sofa grouped in front of the TV. Shelves on either side of the TV contained books, photographs, and various objects, including an unusual pottery piece, three vases joined with a single bottom. I walked over and looked at it.

  “That’s one
of my stepdaughter’s pots,” Kennett said. “Martha. Or Willow. That’s what she calls herself.”

  “I thought it might be.”

  Kennett pointed at a framed photograph on one of the shelves. “That’s Arlene. She died in July of last year. So it’s been just over a year. Cancer. My first wife died of cancer, too.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss.” The passage of time since the death didn’t make any difference. It was always a loss when someone you love died. And this man had lost two wives to the disease.

  I examined the picture of the late Mrs. Arlene Kennett. It showed a pleasant-looking woman in her sixties, her short brown hair threaded with streaks of silver. Laugh lines crinkled the corners of her hazel eyes.

  “We were married over ten years.” Kennett picked up the photograph and ran his work-calloused fingers over the frame. “Arlene and Walt got divorced the summer after Willow graduated from high school. I met Arlene about a year after that. My wife had been gone for about five years then, and my kids—I have three—were grown and out of the house. So...Arlene and I got married. We had a good run. I just didn’t expect to lose her this soon.”

  “Do you have photographs of your stepchildren, Rick and Willow?” I asked.

  “Sure.” Kennett reached for another framed photo on the shelf. “This one was taken at Christmas, a couple of years ago, before Arlene was diagnosed with cancer.”

  The color photograph showed Mrs. Kennett, with her children on either side. I could see a Christmas tree in the background, and the older woman was wearing a red sweater decorated with white snowflakes. Willow, on her mother’s left, looked a lot like Arlene, hazel eyes, and the same brown hair, though worn longer, tied back with a colorful red-and-green scarf that matched the red-and-green checked top she wore.

  Rick Newman, posed on his mother’s right, wore a black sweatshirt with a Harley-Davidson logo. He had been in his early thirties when the picture was taken. Once again I was struck by his resemblance to my brother Brian. His hair was sandy-colored and didn’t have the strawberry-blond hints that my brother’s hair had. Rick wore his hair long, curling around the ears, just like the dead man in the morgue. His eyes were blue, almost the same shade as Brian’s eyes.

  I couldn’t shake the feeling that Rick hadn’t died in the motorcycle accident, that he was still alive. Or was that his body in the Sonoma County morgue?

  “Thanks,” I said, handing the photo back to Kennett. He put it back on the shelf and motioned me to take a seat. I moved to the sofa, while he took the recliner.

  The black-and-white cat got up from his sprawl and stretched. Then he strolled over to the recliner. With one easy movement he jumped into Kennett’s lap. “Hey, there, Mojo,” Kennett said, stroking the cat’s head. Mojo purred and kneaded Kennett’s leg, then circled and settled down for another nap.

  “I wasn’t sure I should talk with you,” Kennett said. “But I’m curious. You told me you have some questions about my wife’s children.”

  “Their names came up in connection with a missing persons case,” I said.

  “Does this have something to do with Rick?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “It’s a hell of a thing,” Kennett said. “Arlene died last summer, her dad died in January, and Rick died in June. They say things come in threes. The reason I asked if this is about Rick is because... Well, he was a wild one, always in trouble. Arlene always worried about him, though he didn’t come around much while she was alive. When she died, he didn’t come around at all. Willow visits now and then.”

  “What can you tell me about Walt Newman, your wife’s first husband?”

  “Don’t know why Arlene ever married him. They were as different as chalk and cheese. Walt’s a character. So was his father.”

  “You knew his father?”

  “Heard stories about him, from Arlene and other people,” Kennett said. “Old Man Newman is gone now, fifteen years or more. Walt’s lived there in Lakeville his whole life.”

  “I understand there is some controversy about his plans to expand the marina.”

  Kennett nodded. “Read about that in the paper, and Willow told me about it, too. There’s a parcel of land on the river just south of the marina. The guy that farmed it died. His family put the land on the market. Walt wants to buy it and build more slips. But the local environmental groups are kicking up something fierce. They want that parcel for wetlands. Never mind that it’s been farmed for years. I guess they want to restore it.”

  Kennett took another swallow of coffee. “Then there’s the roadhouse. It’s popular with bikers, and things can get lively down there. A lot of people don’t like that. Every now and then there’s talk about pulling his liquor license. But nothing ever comes of it. Besides, the roadhouse has been there for years. During Prohibition, they say booze was coming up the Petaluma River by boat. The rum-runners would land at the marina and the roadhouse would distribute the liquor.” He chuckled. “I’ve heard some tales about that roadhouse.”

  I laughed. “I’m sure you’re right.”

  “This land thing came up earlier this year,” Kennett said. “Now Walt’s tussling with the environmentalists over that. And the latest thing is that there was a fire out there on Saturday night. A boat blew up, propane leak, according to the news, and some fellow was killed.”

  “I met a woman at the marina, Tracy Burgoyne. At first I thought she was an employee. Then she implied that she was involved with Walt.”

  “She’s his girlfriend,” Kennett said. “Although at our age it seems strange to talk about girlfriends. She and Walt have been living together for several years. He has a house there at the marina.”

  “I imagine Mr. Newman was really upset about his son’s death.”

  “He sure was.” Kennett glanced at the photographs on the nearby shelf. “I know I would be if any of my kids died. You just don’t expect to outlive your children. Much as I miss Arlene, I’m glad she was spared that.”

  “When did Rick die, exactly? And how did it happen?”

  “The last week in June, on a Thursday,” Kennett said. “It was odd, that accident. Rick and a friend of his—Harry Vann—were up north of Jenner, headed south on Highway One. If you’ve ever driven that highway, you know what it’s like, even on a good day.”

  “I have driven it, and I do know. That road’s very twisty, and narrow in places. What was odd about the accident?”

  “That Rick should have an accident on a day like that,” Kennett said. “It was a really nice day, sunny and clear. No rain in June, of course, and there wasn’t any fog at that time of the afternoon. Highway One can be deadly when the weather’s bad, but the weather was fine. Still, I suppose Rick was speeding. He had a habit of doing that. Anyway, Rick’s motorcycle skidded on a curve and he went off a cliff. His buddy Harry was behind him and saw Rick go over the edge. Harry pulled off the road and tried to get down to help Rick, but it was too steep.” Kennett shook his head, stroking the cat on his lap.

  “Harry told me Rick wasn’t moving, just lying there by the bike, right there at the surf line, and there were some big waves hammering the shoreline. He couldn’t get a signal on his cell phone—no surprise, the cell reception’s bad on the coast. So Harry got back on his bike and went down to Jenner. Time he got back with some help, the Harley was still there, at the bottom of the cliff, but Rick’s body was gone. It must have washed out to sea. Walt was really broken up about it, still is, of course, since it’s only been six or seven weeks since it happened. Rick was Walt’s favorite. I suppose fathers shouldn’t have favorites, but Walt always favored Rick.”

  “What about Willow? Was she close to her brother?”

  Kennett shrugged. “I wouldn’t say close. You know brothers and sisters.”

  Yes, I knew about brothers and sisters. There were times, when we were growing up, that I’d wanted to bounce Brian off a wall. But still, he was my brother, family. Now all I wanted to do was find him and make sure he was safe.


  “They grew up together and went their separate ways,” Kennett said. “Rick never went to college and Willow did. Rick was in trouble with the law, over and over again, went from job to job. Willow’s never had so much as a parking ticket. They had their differences. Sometimes they got along, and sometimes they didn’t. But Willow was pretty upset when we heard the news about Rick. No closure, you know, not having a body. They haven’t had a memorial service yet. I guess Walt’s not ready to go there.”

  “You have three children from your first marriage. Did they know Rick and Willow before you married Arlene?”

  He shook his head. “No. My children are older, in their forties, all of them married with kids of their own. Rick would have been thirty-four this year. Willow’s three years younger, so she’s thirty-one. She and Rick went to school in Petaluma, and my kids grew up here in Cotati, went to high school in Rohnert Park.”

  “What else can you tell me about Willow? Was she always artistic?”

  “I think so, from what Arlene said. Willow studied art up at Sonoma State. She lived here with me and Arlene for a time, until she found a place of her own closer to campus. After she graduated, she went to work at a gallery in Santa Rosa. She did her pottery on the side. Over the years she’s worked hard. These days she sells her stuff out of that gallery over in Occidental. She lived there until recently, had a little house in the main part of town.”

  “I understand she’s moved to her grandfather’s place.”

  “The apple ranch,” Kennett said, rubbing the cat’s ears. “Now, that’s a situation. I don’t know what’s going to happen there.”

  I took another sip of my coffee, then set it aside. “Why do you say that?”

  “That place is about a hundred acres, up there between Graton and Occidental. A little over half of it, about sixty acres, is apple orchards. The rest is pretty rugged, steep and forested. If Arlene had lived, she would have inherited it. After Arlene died, Pete changed his will and left the land to Rick and Willow. They were arguing about what to do with it. Rick wanted to sell the whole thing. That didn’t surprise me. He always needed money. And they would have made a lot of money selling that land. Willow told me she’s been approached by two different wineries. That’s where the money is these days. They’re buying up land right and left, ripping out apple trees, and planting grapes. She doesn’t want to sell any of it. But she might have to.”