by Betty Webb
Frasier nodded. “You wouldn’t believe the bitchery. Why, even now, she’s telling people…”
Another long, boring tale of the Evils of Evelyn. When he finally wound down, I leaned forward, and said, “Yes, yes, that’s terrible, but tell me more about you, Frasier. I’ve always found you to be a fascinating, although very mysterious, man.”
I expected a thunderbolt from Heaven to strike me dead any second, but it didn’t happen. Instead, Frasier—thrilled, as any man would be to be called fascinating and mysterious—started talking about his job. It was almost, but not quite, as boring as his wails about his blood-sucking ex-wife. Oblivious to my disinterest, he harangued me about BPDs, CCSs, CBMs, resbots, gigajoules, and God-knows-what-else having to do with the oil industry. When he finally got around to grumping about the restrictions imposed on his employer by the vile Environmental Protection Agency, I finally found my opening.
“Environmental Protection Agency?” I near-shrieked. “Oh, my God, they’re just awful! I know how much Prime Pacific Oil cares for the environment and the lengths you people go to protect it. We here in San Sebastian County are so, so grateful.”
Still no thunderbolt. Encouraged, I continued, “Stuart Booth was of immense help there, wasn’t he?”
Frasier gave me a blank look. “Huh?”
I tried again. “Well, you know, helping with the otter count.”
“Otter count?”
Granted, any man who’s just been taken to the cleaners by his ex-wife had things other than sea otters on his mind, but still, how could he be that dense? “Frasier, otters are like canaries in coal mines. They’re first to die when the environment goes bad, which is why keeping count of their population numbers is so important. I would think you’d know all about that since Prime Pacific is working on getting clearance to start offshore drilling again.”
Maybe it was my imagination but I thought his red nose just got redder. “My degree is in Business Administration, Teddy, not Ecology, and I don’t know anything about otters. Please don’t tell me you’re one of those Otter Conservancy nutcakes who blames Prime Pacific every time an otter burps.”
Making haste not to alienate him, I said, “No, no, you’ve got me all wrong. I was wondering, just wondering, mind you, that given Booth’s own environmental activism…”—no thunderbolt yet? “… if he might have gotten into an argument with one of those crazy Conservancy folks and, well, you know.”
Frasier’s eyes goggled. “Are you telling me you think Stu Booth was murdered by an eco-terrorist? Over otters?”
“As the old saying goes, lie down with dogs, get up with fleas.”
The alarm left his face. “I don’t know anything about dogs, either. Never had one.”
Oh, Lord, this man was literal. Eager to keep the conversation on topic, I said, “Doesn’t Evelyn have a Schnauzer?”
“Her dog, not mine. If I were to ever get a dog, not that I will, mind you, because I travel too much and it wouldn’t be fair to the animal, I’d want one of those dogs like the Betancourts have.”
“Rottweilers.”
“Right. One of those things. With a spiked collar.”
“Speaking of the Betancourts, poor old Harper, eh? Losing her husband like that.”
He pulled a long face. “Very sad. But she’s a brave girl and I know she’ll bounce back.”
I let the “girl” business slide. “Did you two ever date?”
“Are you serious? Harper never gave me the time of day. Besides, she had a thing for older men. Daddy issues, you know.”
“Stu was about twenty years older than her, wasn’t he?”
“Seventeen. From what I heard, her mother had a fit when she and Stu returned from Vegas already married. She didn’t even know Harper was out of town.” His voice dropped to a near whisper. “Then again, they say she drinks.”
“Harper does?”
“No, no. Gloria Betancourt. Her mother. I imagine Gloria was too drunk to notice Harper was gone until a week later when she showed up again wearing a wedding ring. I mean, good Lord, they were all living in the main house at the time! This was before Harper’s father moved her and Stu into the old game keeper’s cottage at the rear of the property, you understand. Just think of it, Teddy. A mother living in the same house as her daughter, and not knowing she’d just gotten married. What kind of family is that?”
With a sad shake of his head, Frasier stared at his now empty wineglass. He tried to get the bartender’s attention, but the bartender was busy serving four men at the other end of the bar.
“It’s a pretty big house, so it’s understandable you might not see another person for days,” I countered, more in Gloria Betancourt’s defense than Harper’s. I had heard the rumors about Harper’s mother, too, but I was after bigger game. “Stu sure liked them young, didn’t he?”
Frasier leaned forward and reduced his voice to the point where I could barely hear him over the cacophony of the drinkers surrounding us. “Of course he liked them young, who doesn’t? Although there’s a legal limit to that, isn’t there? Just between you and me and the lamppost, I think it’s a good thing Harper came along to settle him down, because the way he was going with his students, he was about to screw himself right out of a career.” He blinked. “Oops. Pardon my French.”
Like I’d never heard the term before. “But with everything you’ve told me, and Harper’s Daddy issues aside, why do you think she actually married Stuart Booth? Compared to the guys she usually dated, he was fairly tame. Remember that sketchy French race-car driver? And the supposed Italian ‘count,’ who turned out to be a phony?”
The bartender brought over a fresh glass of Chablis, which quieted Frasier for a moment. After taking a sip and pronouncing it blah, he said, “Easy answer. Harper’s father finally got tired of her behavior and told her that if she didn’t settle down, he’d disinherit her. And then—get this!—he shoved Booth at her. Can you believe it? I guess he thought Booth was the lesser of evils.”
Since the French race-car driver was rumored to have once killed a track rival, and the phony “count” had been outed as a drug dealer, Harper’s father might have been right. But as for teaching old dogs new tricks…
“Did you ever hear any rumors of Stu’s, ah, licentious behavior with his students after they got married?”
“Nah. Miles nipped that in the bud. Say, how about after we finish these…” Frasier nodded at our wineglasses, “we go into the restaurant and get something to eat? At the reception this morning Miles kept me so busy talking about the opening in Prime Pacific’s Research and Development department that I never made it to the buffet. I’ve been wanting to get into R&D for a long time, so I just stood there and listened. Now my stomach’s growling.”
Hoping to learn more, I followed him into the dining room. As we ate in the under-decorated, cream-on-white restaurant, Frasier tortured me with another long harangue about California’s “bitch-friendly” divorce laws. As he rambled on, the thought occurred to me that if the man wanted to have any sort of après-Evelyn love life, he needed to step up his game. By the time I was only halfway through my Ragout de Boulettes et de Pattes de Cochon, otherwise known as sausage roll-ups, I was near comatose from boredom.
I snapped out of it, though, when Joe and his mother walked in.
Unfortunately, Frasier picked that very moment to grasp my hand and ask me if I would like to go to his rented condo and share a bottle of Chateau Lafite Rotschild 2008 he had rescued from Evil Evelyn’s grasping hands. Before I could pull my hand away, Joe spotted us.
He froze for a moment, then turned on his heel and ushered his mother out of the restaurant.
Two hours later, while lying in my bunk at the Merilee, I tried for the third time to get Joe to pick up his phone. He wouldn’t. Maybe it was just my imagination, but I thought his voice mail salutation even sounded frosty.
In honor of the Three Strikes, You’re Out rule, I gave up.
Around three in the morni
ng, a hissing sound woke me from a deep sleep. At first I thought it might have been a holdover from the dream I’d been having about Sssbyl, the Gunn Zoo’s one-time-runaway Mohave rattlesnake, but then I noticed Bonz sitting at attention on the edge of my bed with his ears up and head cocked.
No dream.
In a harbor, middle-of-the-night hissing sounds are never good news. There are all sorts of power and fuel lines trailing around, and a break in any of them could create a serious problem. Concerned, I slipped my bathrobe over my PJs, grabbed a flashlight, and started topside. Three rungs up the galley ladder, I heard another sound: someone running. Then Bonz began to bark. Always a friendly animal, his alarm worried me enough that I halted my climb and listened until the steps faded away.
When all was quiet again, I made my way to the stickier-than-usual deck, only to discover that a heavy fog had rolled in during the night, dimming the harbor lights to a tenuous glow and the nearby boats to gray shadows. Whoever was roaming around had disappeared into the fog.
The “hissing” sound had stopped, making me suspect a less dangerous and more earthy cause: a passerby using the harbor as his emergency urinal.
Ugh.
Sometimes too-hearty partiers, such as Kenny Norgaard, managed to fall overboard, thus ingesting an unintended gulp of already-filthy harbor water before struggling back on board.
Double ugh.
Since there was nothing I could do about it now, I was ready to return to my snug bed. But then my flashlight’s glow revealed the reason the deck felt so sticky.
In bright red letters spangled with gaudy gold-ish flakes, someone had spray-painted MND YR OWN BIZ in foot-high letters on the teak. Underneath the letters was a crude drawing of a skull.
Chapter Ten
I had just finished gathering up my acetone-soaked rags to take to the harbor’s hazardous waste facility when Caro showed up. Leave it to her to know that Mondays were my day off.
“Pack,” she said, plunking down her Louis Vuitton suitcases on the dock where she stood, tapping a Jimmy Choo-shod foot. She was wearing a lime-green silk Céline jumpsuit, which didn’t go all that well with the red luggage, a rare slipup for her.
“Please don’t start that again, Mother.”
“What’s that awful smell?”
“Paint remover.”
She looked down at the Merilee’s deck. “Why, you’ve ruined the teak!”
“I’ll re-stain and re-varnish, but first things first.”
“What are you talking about, Theodora?”
Not bothering to answer, I stood up and stretched. To a certain point, Caro was right. Paint remover played merry hell with teak, but I needed to get the graffiti off before it set up permanently. Once that was accomplished I would refinish the planking, which I’d been meaning to do, anyway. Poor old Merilee was looking more than a bit weathered.
I said, “You can follow me to the hazardous waste facility if you want.” I picked up the rags and stepped off the boat, DJ Bonz at my heels.
“Then you’ll pack. Right?”
No need to answer. I wasn’t going anywhere.
As I handed over the rags to the facility manager, the harbor began to wake up. A clear morning now, fishing boats headed out into the Pacific while early-rising liveaboarders hoofed it toward the community showers. Above, seagulls screeched. Somewhere nearby, a harbor seal barked. My mother could nag me all she wanted, but I wasn’t leaving this place.
Then I remembered Joe.
Joe wanted me to sell the Merilee, too.
Same problem, different person.
On the way back to the Merilee, Caro kept up with my every step. How she could do that in five-inch heels amazed me.
“Did you hear me, Theodora? Pack!”
“Why are you starting this all over again? I’m staying here and that’s that.”
She gave me a look. “You haven’t heard the news, have you?”
“What news? More gossip from Kenny Norgaard? Or Darleene Bauer, who’s almost as bad?” To make the dig even deeper, I added, “Better stop hanging around those harbor bars, Mother. They’ll rot your mind as well as your liver.”
She didn’t take the bait. “It was on Al’s police scanner.”
“What was?”
“The body.”
“Stuart Booth’s body? Old news.”
“No. The girl’s.”
With five yards yet to go to reach the Merilee, I halted. “What girl?”
“The one they found shot to death on the jogging trail near Point Deem this morning. That’s only six miles up the coast, and it’s getting too dangerous for you to live here by yourself on that rickety boat and…”
I grabbed Caro’s arm. “What was her name?”
She shook off my hand. “For goodness sake, Theodora, you’re stronger than you realize, so stop the manhandling. All that lifting and shoveling and whatever else you do over at the zoo makes you behave in a decidedly unfeminine manner. Next thing I know you’ll be lifting weights and joining that nasty women’s wresting organization, what do they call it? WWF? WTF? Anyway, the police scanner didn’t give a name, only that the joggers who called it in recognized her as a student at UC Santa Cruz.”
“Shot, did you say?”
“That’s what the police scanner said. At least I think it did.” She looked puzzled for a moment. “Yes, yes. I’m pretty certain it did mention a gunshot wound. Look, if you need me to, I’ll even help you pack. I’ve always been a better packer than you. The secret is to roll, not fold, and…”
I felt sick. “Just stop. Please.”
Surprisingly, she did. Peering at me closely, she said, “Are you all right, dear?”
“I didn’t get much sleep last night.”
Behind us, Bonz whined. He wanted us to either continue his walkies or reboard the Merilee. Thankfully, his behavior took Caro’s mind off me for a second.
“Bonzie wants fed?” she baby-talked at him.
“He’s already been fed. And thanks for stopping by and your kind offer, but I have to be someplace in a few minutes and I need to get going.”
She looked at me in outrage. “Like that? You smell like turpentine!”
“Paint remover.”
“Same thing. Whatever, you need to pack.” She pointed to the suitcases sitting on the edge of the dock.
“Good-bye, Mother.” I quickly closed the distance to the Merilee, bypassed the suitcases, and jumped on board. After a moment of indecision, Bonz joined me.
Since it’s not right to take a civilian dog to a crime scene, I had to disappoint Bonz and leave him to Puss’ tender mercies. After that, it didn’t take long for me to drive to the start of Point Deem’s jogging path, where what appeared to be every police car in Santa Cruz County sat in the trail’s parking lot. Several yards away, two plainclothes detectives were interviewing a group of young men wearing UC Santa Cruz Track Team sweatshirts. One of the students, who looked as sick as I felt, sat on the ground with his head slumped forward. The others remained standing, pretending they were fine.
It was a particularly attractive area, an eight-mile-long asphalt path that looped through a sprinkling of live oaks and Monterey pines. At night lamplights lit the path, lending it an eerie beauty. Apparently not a safe one, though.
I positioned myself downwind from the breeze blowing in from the Pacific. As I hoped, I was able to catch a phrase here and there.
“… saw a guy with a beard running.”
“…black beard.”
“…beard was dark brown because...”
“Blue sweatshirt or...”
“He wore running pants….”
Finally, I heard the name of the victim.
Amberlyn.
The drive back to Gunn Landing was a sad one.
Amberlyn had wanted an education to lift herself above the poverty that had stalked her family for generations. Granted, her method of doing so was hardly traditional, but did it deserve a death sentence? As for me, I was a
believer in that old Native American saying about walking a mile in another man’s moccasins before judging him. Or her. If I had been raised in poverty and saw a paid-for college education as my only way out, who knows what I would have done.
I never use my cell while driving, so I pulled over and called the zoo. As soon as Zorah picked up, I went straight to the point. “Has Lex Yarnell clocked in yet?”
“Funny you should ask. He just called in sick.”
Popular belief notwithstanding, differing law enforcement agencies are usually quick to share information with each other. The Santa Cruz authorities would be well-aware that two gunshot deaths within a week—even one was rare in this area—had been separated by less than six miles. It was my guess they had already reached out to Joe. Only one question remained: had they found Amberlyn’s phone yet? The one with Lex Yarnell’s number on it?
Zorah’s voice snapped me back to the present moment. “What’s going on, Teddy?”
Before I could rethink the wisdom of my next question, I asked, “Did you ever meet Amberlyn Lofland?”
“Lex’s ex-girlfriend? Sure. He brought her to a couple of zoo dos. Gorgeous girl. Smart, too. Why do you ask?”
“How did Lex sound when he called in?”
“Like he had a bad cold. Now, c’mon. Tell me what’s going on?”
Since she would find out soon enough, I told her.
“Oh, crap.”
“Exactly. As soon as I get off the phone I’m driving over to Lex’s place, see if he needs anything.”
“Do you think that’s a good idea?” Zorah asked.
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
“Maybe you’re forgetting, but he took their breakup awfully hard, and it might be smarter if you eased off. For a while, anyway.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “Don’t tell me you suspect Lex!”
“He was awfully torn up, Teddy. And men can…”
“Lex Yarnell doesn’t have a violent bone in his body.” At that point, a battered, slow-moving pickup piled high with gardening equipment almost sideswiped me, so I pulled even further off the road.
