by Janet Dawson
“How so?”
“Economic reality,” Kennett said. “It’s hard for Willow to make a living doing what she does. When she was just starting, she worked at all sorts of jobs, like that first one in the gallery, doing whatever she could to pay the rent. She started off making small pieces, cups and vases and bowls, that sort of thing. She’d sell them at arts and crafts fairs, almost every weekend, spring, summer and fall. It got old, she said, hauling pottery around from place to place. Plus, you’ve got the gas, the time, wear and tear on the car. Then she started selling her work at that gallery in Occidental, and she didn’t have to go to the fairs as often. She’s managing on what she makes with her pottery and a little money her mother left her.”
“But it’s not a whole lot of money?”
“No. For Willow, that land takes off some of the financial pressure and gives her a chance to do what she loves to do.”
“But Rick wanted to sell. That’s pressure of a different sort.”
“Yes, it was. Up until Rick died, she was thinking she’d have to buy him out, so he’d get some money and quit pushing her to sell the place outright. But she didn’t know how she was going to afford that.”
“Rick’s dead now, so presumably Willow owns the place free and clear.”
“I don’t know how it all sorts out in terms of the legalities,” Kennett said. “Rick’s presumed dead, because the body wasn’t found. But yes, Willow figures the place is hers to do with as she sees fit. She moved into the old house in July, right after Rick died. And she built herself an outdoor kiln. She’s using the barn for a workroom.”
“So she’s living rent free. As you say, that should alleviate some of her financial difficulties.”
“Right. But there’s property taxes with a place like the ranch,” Kennett said. “It’s a bigger place so that’s more to spend on utilities. There’s a well and a septic system to maintain. And that old house sure needs some fixing up. Besides, there are the apples, all those trees. She’s not going to farm the place. I don’t know that she can afford to hire somebody to do it for her. It’s not worth the money spent to harvest apples these days. The apple growing industry around here is going downhill. People are tearing out orchards right and left.”
“Yes, I’ve heard that. My cousin and her husband over in Graton grow apples. So what is Willow going to do?”
“She hasn’t decided. She may sell some of the acreage and keep a portion for herself. That would probably be the most sensible thing to do. Those winery offers are real tempting. She told me how much they’re offering. But Willow would like to see the land used for apples. So would a lot of the preservationists here in the west county.”
So members of the Newman family were involved in two issues surrounding land use here in Sonoma County—Walt with his plans to expand the marina, and Willow contemplating what to do with the apple ranch she’d inherited.
“I’d really like to talk with Willow,” I said.
“How does this figure into your missing persons case?” he asked.
“Willow has had some correspondence with the man who’s missing. I’d like to see if she knows anything that might help me find him.” I steered the subject back to Rick. “You said Rick was always in trouble. What kind of trouble?”
“Drugs,” Kennett said. “Using, growing and selling, all the way back to when he was in high school. He did some jail time in the county lockup. Last year he got busted for selling pot, but he was acquitted.”
“What sort of work did he do?”
Kennett frowned. “Rick never could hold a job for long. He did a little of this, a little of that. Sometimes he worked for Walt down at the marina. He did know his way around boats and motorcycles. Harry Vann, Rick’s friend, he and his sister have a motorcycle repair shop in Santa Rosa. Rick worked for them off and on.”
“By the way, who was Rick’s attorney, the one he had when he was acquitted of that most recent drug charge?”
Kennett thought for a moment. “What was his name? Oh, I remember. Same name as that river in Germany. Mr. Rhine.”
Twenty
I left Cotati and got on the freeway, heading north to Santa Rosa. As I drove, I mulled over the information I’d gleaned during my conversation with Steven Kennett. Both he and Tracy Burgoyne told me there had been a witness to Rick Newman’s accident. Now I needed more information on Rick’s friend Harry Vann, who had been there when Rick’s motorcycle went off the cliff at the end of June.
And where did Lowell Rhine figure into all of this? The defense lawyer from San Rafael supposedly owned the boats at Newman’s Marina, including the one that burned. I had wondered why he had berthed the boats at such a remote location. Now I’d learned that he’d represented Rick on a drug charge last year.
I passed a slow-moving truck, then used my hands-free headset to call Rita Lydecker’s cell phone. “I dropped by Lowell Rhine’s office earlier this afternoon, but I couldn’t get past the receptionist. I left my card and a message to call me. Said it was about the Esmeralda. I don’t think he’ll call, so I’ll have to catch up with him. Did you find out if Rhine is a sailor?”
Rita laughed. “Mr. Rhine likes fancy cars, fancy threads, good wine, and gourmet restaurants. But as far as I can determine, he is not into boats.”
“Yet I was told he owns those three boats berthed at the Lakeville marina,” I said. “I heard Walt Newman himself say that Rhine had called to make arrangements to have the two remaining boats moved. Rhine’s name must be on the paperwork involving those boats.”
“So he’s a boat owner in name only,” Rita said. “I can think of some scenarios that might explain that.”
“So can I.” My exit into Santa Rosa was coming up. I signaled a turn and slowed as I left the freeway. “Suppose Rhine was keeping the boats for someone? A client who was facing some jail time or fines and didn’t want the boat listed as an asset. Or...could be, Rhine’s name is listed as the owner to keep the boats from being impounded. That would explain keeping the boat in an out-of-the-way location.”
“We could do a boat history search,” Rita said. “It would help if we had a hull number.”
Rita was right. With the Esmeralda’s twelve-digit hull identification number, we could trace the boat’s history. A report would tell us the make and model of the boat, its age, and let us know whether the boat had been involved in any incidents such as a collision or a grounding, or whether it had a history of storm damage. Such a report would also tell us if the boat had ever been seized for any reason.
The number is usually found on the boat’s stern, but also on various documents such as the boat’s title, registration, and insurance documents. I would have to see if I could get the hull identification number from the tight-mouthed Sonoma county detectives—or maybe Tracy Burgoyne at Newman’s Marina.
“I’ll get a hull number for the Esmeralda,” I said. “While I was at the marina yesterday and today, I took pictures of the other two boats. They’re still tied up at the same dock where the Esmeralda burned. I’d like to get boat histories on those boats while we’re at it. The pictures I took have the names and hull numbers. The shots are on my cell phone camera. I’ll drop by your place on my way home and we can get started.”
“I’m thinking about the possibility of the boat being impounded,” Rita said. “I have a contact at the Coast Guard station in Sausalito. I’ll check with him to see if I can find out if the boat was ever impounded in the past.”
“Good idea.” I stopped at a red light. “I’m in Santa Rosa now, but I can stop by San Rafael on my way home.”
“Come to my house. I’m completely moved out of the office now.” Rita gave me her address and we ended the call.
The light turned green. I went through the intersection, then turned and drove through city streets to Aunt Caro’s house.
“Your mother’s lying down,” my aunt said when she answered the door. “Tim’s in the backyard. Any news?”
“No. But a lot of
questions.”
“I figured. There’s a pitcher of iced tea in the fridge.” Caro sounded distracted, but I understood. She was working on another one of her dense historical novels, notes and papers spread out around her as she stretched out on the living room sofa with her laptop. That was her favorite place to work, but usually she was there alone, or with Uncle Neil. It must have been difficult for her to focus on her work with two unexpected houseguests—my parents—and a family crisis in the offing.
I left her in the living room, my bag on the counter separating the family room from the kitchen, and retrieved my cell phone and notepad from my bag. I called Nancy Parsons, Brian’s former coworker in Sonoma, but she wasn’t home. I left my name and number, and disconnected the call.
In the kitchen, I opened a cabinet, took out a glass and put lots of ice in it. I was really warm and my cotton shirt was sticking to me. I helped myself to some tea from the pitcher in the refrigerator. Then I went out the back door to the patio.
Dad was stretched on a chaise longue, a book in his hands and a glass on a nearby table. As I approached, it looked as though he too was napping. His head was tilted to one side on the pillow, and his eyes were closed. I mapped the wrinkles on his face and the silver threads in his thinning hair. Then his eyes opened. “Do you have any news?” he asked.
I pulled up a chair and sat down. “Nothing specific.” The iced tea tasted good. I drank half the glass and then set it on the nearby table. “Listen, Dad. I want you to think back to your conversations with Brian over the past few months. Did he ever say anything about incidents at the school where he was teaching in Sonoma? Maybe something involving one of his students?”
Dad shifted to a more upright position and set the book on the table. “He didn’t care for the principal who took over his school, after the other one died. I know that was a problem. Clash of styles, I suppose. It happens. I think that’s why he was interested in changing schools.”
He looked thoughtful as he reached for his glass and took a sip. “I was surprised, though, about the move from Sonoma to Petaluma. It seemed so sudden. But he must have been thinking about it for a while. As for something involving one of his students, he did mention... When was it?” Dad paused and drummed his fingers on the side of the glass. “It was after spring break, so it must have been April. Brian said he was concerned about a boy who was being bullied. He didn’t think the principal was taking it seriously.”
Bullying. That could have led to the boy trying to kill himself. Bullying had received a lot of news coverage over the past few years, and there had been suicides. Who knew how many suicide attempts had gone unreported?
“Did Brian say anything else? Did he plan on talking to the principal or someone else in the school administration?”
“No. After mentioning it that one time, he didn’t say anything further about it. So I don’t know if he talked with anyone about the situation. I’d forgotten about it till now. Why do you ask?”
“Something Lance Coverdell told me. You remember Lance?”
“Of course. Brian’s friend. He was best man at the wedding. What did he say?”
“I have to check and make sure this really happened,” I said. “But it’s possible, given what you’ve said about the student being bullied.” I recapped my conversation with Lance, the part about the student who’d attempted suicide.
Dad shook his head. “That’s terrible. Yes, I can see your brother being upset if one of his students tried to kill himself. But he didn’t say anything to me, other than mentioning the bullying. It might not even be the same student.”
“I thought of that. Sheila gave me the name of one of Brian’s fellow teachers in Sonoma. I hope to set up a time to talk with her.”
I went back into the house for a refill on my iced tea. It was after five, according to the clock on the kitchen wall. Caro came up behind me. “Don’t even think about getting on the freeway at this hour. Rush hour traffic’s a mess. Wait till after dinner.”
“Done writing for the day?” I asked.
She gave me a wry grin. “I have reached a bump in the plot road, so I’ll contemplate a detour while I rustle up some grub. Something cold. It’s so hot I don’t want to turn on the oven.”
My mother walked into the kitchen from the bedrooms down the hall. “I’m the chef. I’ll fix dinner.”
“Did you get any sleep?” Caro asked.
Mother shook her head. “No. Tossed and turned, thinking about things. It’s better that I keep busy.” She opened the refrigerator and assessed the contents. “Now what do I have to work with? Here’s that leftover chicken we grilled yesterday. I’ll make a big salad. And there’s the rest of that plum tart we got at the bakery.”
Mother pulled the container of chicken out of the fridge and set it on the counter. She reached into the refrigerator again, piling up plastic bags full of fresh fruits and vegetables. She reached for a cutting board and knife and began pulling the chicken off the bone and chopping it into pieces. Caro rinsed and drained a head of romaine lettuce. I set the table and went outside to tell Dad dinner would soon be ready.
Back in the house, I reached for my cell phone, stepping into the now-vacant living room as I redialed Nancy Parsons’ number. This time the phone was answered by a woman’s voice. As she said “Hello,” I heard a man’s voice and a barking dog in the background.
“Nancy Parsons?”
“That’s me. Who’s this?”
“Jeri Howard. I’m Brian Howard’s sister.”
“Oh, hey, you left me a message. I was going to call you later. You’re the private investigator. Brian’s mentioned you.” There was the hint of a chuckle in her voice. “I hope you’re not calling because you’re on a case.”
“I’m afraid I am,” I said. “Brian is missing.”
“Good lord,” she said, all trace of humor gone. “When? How? I mean, how awful.”
“That’s the way I feel. Ms. Parsons, I wonder if I could talk with you about Brian.”
“I’d be happy to, except I’m due at my in-laws’ for dinner in ten minutes. I’m free tomorrow morning. How about ten o’clock?”
“That works for me. I can come to Sonoma, if you’ll pick a place.”
She suggested a café and bake shop not far from the historic plaza in downtown Sonoma. “The coffee’s good and they have yummy pastries. Not that I need any.” The chuckle was back in her voice. “I’m on the pleasingly plump side.”
“I never pass up a good pastry. How will I recognize you?”
“Short, round, salt-and-pepper hair. And you?”
“Tall, reddish hair. I’ll see you there.”
I sat down and ate dinner with my family. Mother had worked wonders with the supplies she had to hand, constructing a salad full of chunks of chicken mixed with lettuce and other vegetables, almonds, sliced peaches and figs, all of this sprinkled with pungent blue cheese from the Cowgirl Creamery and drizzled with a homemade vinaigrette. We finished off a loaf of kalamata olive bread and the plum tart as well.
Before I left Caro’s house, I took the front page of that morning’s newspaper, with the artist’s sketch of the dead man. Then I said my good-byes and got on the road, heading south. Traffic was definitely lighter at that time of the evening. I was tired after my day driving around Sonoma County, but I had one more stop to make, at Rita’s house.
I left Santa Rosa and its environs, heading over the hills into Petaluma. As I reached the outskirts, I called Sid, my ex-husband.
“I was thinking about you. I heard from Joe Kelso,” he said, mentioning his former partner who was now chief of police in Cloverdale. “I called him yesterday and he got in touch with those two detectives at the Sonoma County Sheriff’s Office.”
“Did he get any information from them?”
“You’re right, they definitely think Brian is a person of interest in the homicide. The sooner you can find him, the better.”
“I know. But so far I’m not having any luck f
inding him.” I banged my hand against the steering wheel. “Have they identified the body?”
“No,” Sid said. “They’re hoping the sketch that was in the newspaper will help. Joe got copies of documents and photos. He scanned and emailed those to me, and I’ll send them to you. Joe says he should have a copy of the autopsy report as soon as it’s available.”
“Is there anything in those documents relating to the boat? As in, who owns it? And a hull identification number? Rita Lydecker and I are going to run a boat history.”
“I think so.” Sid was silent for a moment as he looked at the papers. “Yeah. Here’s a paper that says the boat is owned by Lowell Rhine, San Rafael. As for a hull ID, hmm... Wait, here’s a picture of the boat after they pulled it out of the water. I can just make out the plate on the back. Got a pen?”
I had a small notepad and pen affixed to the dashboard of my Toyota. I reached for the pen and wrote down the number as he read it off. “Thanks,” I told Sid. “I’ll look forward to seeing what Joe sent you.”
I ended the call as I approached Novato. So Lowell Rhine of San Rafael did in fact own the Esmeralda. Officially. But the attorney was not a sailor, according to Rita. The more I found out, the more questions I had.
I called Rhine’s office and got voice mail. I disconnected the call and frowned at the traffic on the freeway. I’ll catch up with you, Mr. Rhine. Sooner or later, but I will.
Twenty-One
Rita Lydecker lived in the Terra Linda section of San Rafael, north of downtown and west of Highway 101. I had never been to her home before, but was interested to see that it was an Eichler house, built in the years after World War II, by Bay Area developer Joseph Eichler. The house was typical of many of the Eichlers I’d been in, with its low-sloping A-framed roof and small front windows. Rita’s house had an atrium, an open-air entrance foyer. Inside were floor-to-ceiling glass windows and exposed post-and-beam construction. The floors were concrete slab with radiant heating, and Rita had covered them with colorful oriental rugs. The house had the usual open floor plan, with sliding doors for the rooms and closets.
