“Who?”
He’s losing it.
“Terry-Jennifer’s sister.”
“Terry went home. Yesterday evening, after- Sharon, I have to go.”
I hung up before he did, and called Terry Wyatt in Davis.
“Damn right I left,” Terry Wyatt said. “There’s such a thing as family loyalty, but as far as I’m concerned, Mark isn’t family anymore.”
“What happened?”
“Yesterday afternoon he came home from an appointment in the city in a foul mood. Holed up in his office for a while, then came out, went straight to the wet bar and started sucking up Scotch. After his fourth drink, I suggested we eat the dinner the housekeeper had prepared and left in the oven. He said he wasn’t hungry. I told him he needed to eat and swilling booze wasn’t going to bring Jen home. And that’s when he attacked me.”
“Attacked you?”
“Threw his glass and hit me on the forehead-I’ve got a nasty bruise to show for it. Then he started ranting about what a bitch I was, but at least I wasn’t a lying cunt like my sister. I was trying to leave the room, but he got between me and the door and shoved me so hard I fell against the back of the sofa. He trapped me there, loomed over me, and said all sorts of awful things.”
“Such as?”
“That Jen was the worst thing that ever happened to him. That she was crazy and he ought to’ve had her committed months ago. That because of her he was ruined professionally, and he hoped she’d rot in hell. And then he just started cursing-some of the worst obscenities I’ve ever heard, and I’ve heard plenty. Finally I managed to get away from him. I grabbed my car keys and ran out of there without taking any of my stuff. And I’m never going back. When you find Jen, I want her to come stay with my husband and me, so we can convince her she should divorce that maniac.”
“Those were his exact words-that he hoped Jennifer would rot in hell?”
“Yes. Why- Oh my God, you don’t think he killed her?”
“I doubt it,” I said quickly, with more confidence than I felt. “Mark had just suffered a major professional problem that probably wouldn’t have happened if your sister hadn’t disappeared. He was taking it out on you.”
“Well, he’s going to suffer a major personal problem before I’m through with him.”
“I think your anger’s fully justified. But now I need you to do something for me.” I explained about her sister borrowing the neighbor’s car. “Mark sounded as if he was incapable of notifying the highway patrol. He couldn’t even give me the color or license plate number of Estee Pearson’s Porsche.”
“I know Estee and her husband, and I’m sure they’re listed in the directory; they’re the kind of people who can’t bear to miss a call, even if it’s from an aluminum-siding salesman. I’ll phone them and get the information, then notify the highway patrol myself.”
“Thank you, Terry. Will you call in the information on the car to my office manager? He’ll notify any other agencies who’re cooperating.”
“Will do.” A pause. “Sharon, I’m scared for Jen.”
“Don’t be,” I said-again more confidently than I felt. “Just hang in there, and we’ll get through this.”
So what had happened to Jennifer Aldin? Had the story Melissa Baker told her about Josie’s last day triggered a breakdown? Had she then gone home to Atherton, taken her neighbor’s car, and begun running on a reckless course like her mother’s? No, not like her mother’s. Laurel Greenwood’s course had been well planned and deliberate. Emil Tiegs’s story had proven that.
And what if Jennifer hadn’t taken the neighbor’s car? What if she’d gone home, quarreled with her husband, and Mark, unable to cope any longer with her obsession, had killed her? I had only his word that he wasn’t aware that she and Estee Pearson possessed keys to each other’s vehicles. Knowing the Pearsons were away on vacation, he could have taken the Porsche, loaded Jennifer’s body into it, and left her SUV in its place. And then disposed of both the car and its burden.
When the Porsche was finally located, would it-and Jennifer-be in some remote place, such as the bottom of a ravine in the Santa Cruz Mountains, buzzards circling above?
God, McCone, get a grip on that imagination! Finish your report, e-mail it, and try to find an angle to work on Kev Daniel.
I don’t do waiting very well. Once I’d finished and sent my report, time lay heavy on my hands. I tried to read, but my thoughts kept coming back to the case. I channel-surfed and found nothing of interest on TV. Finally I decided to order dinner from room service and picked up the guest information folder; a map of area wineries was tucked into one of its pockets. Daniel Kane Vineyards was on Paloma Road, some ten miles east of town.
Fifteen minutes later I was speeding along Highway 46 in my rental car. Just checking out the territory, I told myself.
The winery was farther off the highway than it looked on the map. I was beginning to think I’d turned the wrong way on Paloma Road when rows of grapevines appeared, covering the flat fields to either side; then a floodlit sign, gray with gold-and-black lettering, loomed up on the right. Stone pillars flanked the foot of a blacktop drive that snaked off under a canopy of oaks. No gate.
I drove by, doused my lights, and pulled onto the shoulder next to a drainage ditch. Got out of the car and walked back. Slipped under the protection of the trees and moved along parallel to the driveway. After about a hundred yards it divided around another stand of oaks. I kept going to the left, following an arrow with the words “Wine Tasting” lettered on it. From the top of a low rise, I spotted a collection of brightly floodlit buildings: what looked to be an old barn, and several prefab metal structures-the winery itself. One of them bore a sign indicating it was a tasting room. Temporary, until the new one Jacob Ziff was designing could be built.
After studying the layout for a moment, I backtracked to the fork and followed the drive to the right. The trees ended, and I found myself in more vineyards. Faint lights shone ahead; I crouched down and made for them, peering through the vines as I got closer.
A house: gray wood and stone, one-story and sprawling, with plenty of large windows to take advantage of the vineyard views. The driveway ended in an oval in front of it. Floodlights illuminated the house’s facade, but its windows were dark. The vines grew up to within a few feet of a wide deck that wrapped around the entire structure. I hesitated only a moment before I moved closer.
The windows’ glass glinted in the moonlight. I crept through the vines toward the back, but saw nothing. Went around the entire house and was almost back to the driveway when headlights shone through the trees. I crouched down next to the side of the deck.
A low-slung car came out of the trees, going fast. For a moment I thought it would overshoot the pavement and plow into the deck, but then the driver geared down and slammed on the brakes. The car-a light-colored Jaguar-skidded and came to a stop near the house’s front steps. I edged around the corner of the deck and saw the headlights go out and Kev Daniel lurch through the door. He staggered toward the house as if he was drunk. In the brightness of the floods, I could clearly see his rumpled clothing and disheveled hair; one shoulder of his long-sleeved shirt was nearly ripped off.
Good God, had the man been in a bar fight?
Daniel paused at the bottom of the steps to the deck, placed a hand on the railing. Leaned there and hung his head, then shook it. When he looked up again, I got a good view of his face.
He wasn’t drunk. He looked sick-and terrified.
He remained there for at least thirty seconds, breathing heavily before moving up the steps. I was debating whether to go after him and confront him while his defenses were down when my cell phone rang.
Stupid to have left it on. Stupid!
I yanked the damned device from my bag, pressed the answer button, and scrambled away through the vines. Behind me Daniel bellowed, “Who’s there? Whoever you are, you’re trespassing!” His voice sounded more frightened than angry.
&nb
sp; As I reached the shelter of the oak trees along the driveway, I heard a voice coming from the phone.
“Shar? Shar?” Charlotte Keim.
“Yes,” I whispered, “I’m here.”
“What?”
“I’m here.” Somewhat louder.
“What?”
No sounds of pursuit, and I was well down the driveway by now. “I’m here!”
“Well, don’t bite my head off!”
“Sorry. What d’you have for me?”
“The break we’ve been looking for on Jennifer Aldin. Her ATM card was used three hours ago-and guess where?”
I was near the road. Still no sounds of pursuit. I leaned against one of the oaks to rest. “Keim, I’m in no mood for guessing games. Where?”
Her voice was somewhat subdued when she replied, “Right down the road from you, in Morro Bay.”
Friday
AUGUST 26
Five minutes after midnight, and Morro Bay was wrapped in mist, its streets deserted.
Earlier, while I returned to my car on Paloma Road, Keim had gone to Ted’s office and found the license plate number of Estee Pearson’s silver Porsche Boxster that Terry Wyatt had earlier phoned in. Armed with that and the photograph of Jennifer that Mark had provided, I started out for the coast.
On the way, I considered relaying the information on the Porsche to the SLO County Sheriff’s Department, but decided against it. All the circumstances now pointed to Jennifer’s disappearance being voluntary, and I wanted to spare her any unpleasant publicity, as well as give myself the opportunity to talk with her.
I thought I knew what she’d tell me; I’d begun to intuit what Jennifer was doing, and why. Given enough time, I could find her.
Now I drove along the waterfront to the park where Laurel Greenwood had last been seen, checked the few vehicles parked there. No Boxster, but I hadn’t really expected to see it. Then I began a tour of lodging places: Embarcadero Inn, Bayview Lodge, Ascot Suites, the Breakers, Tradeswinds Motel, San Marcos Inn, and on and on. At each I first toured the parking lot looking for the Boxster, then went inside and showed the clerk Jennifer’s photograph and asked him or her if they’d seen my missing friend. Friend, because an ordinary person in distress garners more sympathy than a private detective, who often means trouble for the individual she’s seeking.
Most of the desk clerks said Jennifer hadn’t checked in, and a few at the higher-end establishments claimed they couldn’t give out information about guests, but I was reasonably sure Jennifer wasn’t staying with them either. There were a lot of motels in the town, and by the time I’d finished with them, it was after four a.m. and I was ready for a cup of coffee and a bite to eat.
The matronly, gray-haired waitress at the all-night restaurant I found on the outskirts of town said she thought Jennifer might have been in yesterday or the day before, but she couldn’t be sure. She recommended their BLT as the best on the coast, and quickly brought coffee. The place was deserted, so when my food was ready, she asked if she could join me; I agreed. She said, “I hope your friend’s not in trouble,” as she sat down opposite me.
“In trouble emotionally, anyway.” I bit into the BLT. “She disappeared last Sunday, and only tonight I found out she was in this area. Everybody at home is worried sick about her.”
“Well, of course they are, honey. And you look like you’re about worn out.” She reached for the photograph I’d left lying on the table. “Such a lovely young woman. Reminds me a little of my granddaughter; she’s in Los Angeles now, working in advertising. I’d go crazy if I didn’t hear from her every week or two. Why would your friend want to go and worry her people like that?”
“She has her reasons, I guess. Let me ask you this: if she’s not registered at any of the motels here in town, where might she be staying?”
“Lots of places. Plenty of bed-and-breakfasts. Everybody with an extra room seems to’ve gotten into that tax-break racket lately. Or she could’ve gone down to San Luis or up to Cayucos or Cambria.”
“No, I think she’s here in Morro Bay. She has… a sentimental attachment to the town.”
The woman frowned, drumming her fingertips on the table. “You say she doesn’t want anybody to recognize her?”
“I think she’s probably afraid her husband has reported her missing.”
“Well, then, I have a few ideas. But I don’t dare make any calls till at least six. Why don’t you finish your sandwich, have a little rest, and come back after seven? Maybe I’ll know something then.”
I thanked her and gave her the make, color, and license plate number of the car Jennifer was driving. There was no sense in checking into a motel for only a couple of hours, so after I’d eaten and paid, I went out to the parking lot and curled up on the backseat of my rental car. It was cramped and cold, but I’d left a sweater there after my meeting with Emil Tiegs. I covered myself as best I could and fell into a fitful sleep. My dreams were so unpleasant that when they were broken by the ringing of my cellular, I was grateful for the intrusion.
“McCone, what’s your ETA?”
“My… huh?”
“It’s your husband. Remember me? You never called to say when you’re picking me up this afternoon.”
“Ripinsky. Oh God… It’s so early.”
“It’s after eight.”
“You’re kidding!” I sat up, looked at my watch. “I can’t imagine how I slept so long, considering how uncomfortable it is here.”
“Where’s that?”
“The backseat of my rental car, in Morro Bay.”
“You’re alone, I hope.”
“Very funny.”
“Very gruffly.” It was our private word for grumpy, grouchy, and then some.
“Yeah. Sorry.” I ran my hand over my face, pushed my hair away from where it was stuck to my cheek. Good God, had I drooled in my sleep?
Hy said, “I take it the weekend’s in jeopardy.”
“Yeah, there’s been a break in the case.” I began pulling my twisted clothing into place. It was way past time to return to the restaurant and the nice waitress whose name I hadn’t even asked. Come to think of it, she hadn’t asked mine. A heartening example of the kind of trust that sometimes develops between total strangers.
“Well, that’s good news,” Hy said. “There’s more stuff I can do here, so I’ll wait till I hear from you.”
“I hate to wreck our plans.”
“Don’t worry. Your case is important, and we’ve got lots of weekends ahead of us. Call if you need me.”
McCone, how did you get so lucky?
We broke the connection simultaneously. I got out of the car and went back into the restaurant.
The place was starting to fill up. The matronly waitress, who looked as if she was ready to go home, motioned to me from behind the counter and took me into a hallway that led to the restrooms.
“You must’ve caught a nap,” she said, “but you still don’t look so good, honey. Better clean up some, then go on out to the Creekside Springs Resort and talk to Bud Ferris.” She thrust a piece of paper into my hand. “I drew you a map, and in case you get lost, that’s Bud’s phone number. If you hustle, your friend might still be there.”
I peered at the penciled map. “I can’t thank you enough. And I don’t even know your name.”
“Hey, honey, I don’t know yours either. But as the Bard said, ‘What’s in a name?’” She winked at me and started back down the hallway, then called over her shoulder, “BA in English lit, UC Santa Cruz, seventy-one. How’s that for a smart career choice?”
As soon as I saw it, I recognized Creekside Springs Resort from one of the postcards in Laurel Greenwood’s collection: a white clapboard main building and several small cottages nestled in a sycamore grove at the northern edge of Los Padres National Forest. Its weathered sign advertised luxury lodging, mineral baths, and fine dining, but it was obvious to me as I rumbled over the bridge that spanned the creek in front of it that the resort had s
een better days. The grounds, while not completely overgrown, had an unkempt appearance, roses running rampant up trellises and onto the roof of the main building, and the cottages looked as if they could use several coats of paint.
I parked in a graveled area out front and went inside. The large common area was filled with old-fashioned rattan furniture cushioned in faded floral prints, and a stone fireplace was soot-blackened and choked with ashes. Glass-paned doors to the dining room were closed and curtained on the inside. There was no reception desk, but a sign next to a door at the rear read “Office.” I knocked and waited.
After a moment the door opened and a man with unruly brown hair peered out at me. “You’re the lady who’s looking for her friend?”
“Yes. My name’s Sharon McCone. You’re Mr. Ferris?”
“That’s right.” He opened the door wider and motioned me into a room that was filled to overflowing with books, newspapers, and magazines. Two TVs, three VCRs, two DVD players, and numerous tapes and discs sat on shelving that took up an entire wall, and a computer with two oversize screens, two scanners, and two printers covered a nearby desk. Ferris saw me looking at them and said, “Backups. You never know when one of the damn things’ll die on you. Now, about this friend of yours-I understand you have a photograph of her.”
I produced it and he looked it over carefully before he handed it back to me. “Your friend’s run out on her family?”
“Yes. Everyone’s frantic with worry. We need to know if she’s all right.”
“Well, that would depend on your definition of ‘all right.’ Have a seat, why don’t you?”
I glanced at the chair he motioned to, removed a stack of Newsweeks, and sat.
“The term ‘all right’ covers a lot of ground,” Ferris went on. “Mrs. Greenwood shows no evidence of alcohol or drug abuse, but something about the lady feels wrong.”
“Excuse me-Mrs. Greenwood? Jennifer Greenwood?”
“No. Laurel. Isn’t that correct?”
“Her name is Jennifer Aldin. Laurel Greenwood was her mother.”
Vanishing Point Page 16
