Y Is for Yesterday

by Sue Grafton

  It was time to see if I could run him to ground. Being a big fan of the obvious, I decided to start up at Yellowweed since that’s where he was headed at last report. As a place to transact off-grid business, the abandoned campsite was isolated and therefore offered privacy. If Fritz had gone up there with this guy on Friday, why hadn’t he come home? Maybe the original plan was to get him up there and relieve him of the money. The guy must not have realized how pointless cunning was when Fritz was so eager to hand over the cash.

  I stopped off at a service station and topped off my tank on the way to the 101 and then I headed for the pass. As I wound my way up the mountain, I could see the turkey vultures wheeling in the sky overhead. I counted four of them, their wings held in a shallow V, occasionally tipping from side to side, which caused the flight feathers to look silvery in the late afternoon light. The turkey vulture forages by smell, which is apparently uncommon in the world of birds. Flying low to the ground, they’re capable of picking up the scent of gasses that herald decay in dead animals. The turkey vulture feeds on carrion, looking at road kill as life’s perpetual banquet.

  I parked at the side of the road, pulling my Honda in close to the rising hillside. This must have been roughly the spot where Troy had parked his pickup truck the night Sloan was killed. I started the climb. The Boy Scout camp at Yellowweed had been deserted for years. The trail was overgrown and I was probably wading through poison ivy that would net me a nasty rash later on. The signs along the trail were faded, some posts broken off at the midpoint, leaving a ragged bouquet of splinters. As is usually the case, the hike made me conscious that I was out of shape. The aggravating thing about exercise is that it prepares you solely for the one you’re engaged in. Biking, hiking, running, or lifting weights—the activity conditions you for that activity, but not necessarily for anything else.

  At the summit, where the ground leveled out, I stopped and took stock. At first glance, I had no way to guess if Fritz and his pal had been here. Visitors usually accessed the area by way of the old gravel road, which in drought conditions such as ours would yield no tire prints. A fine haze of dust had settled on the scrub brush, but it might have been there for months. I counted eight more vultures congregated in the trees, which were otherwise bereft of leaves. The dry weather had created a premature change of season and the foliage had dropped without ceremony.

  The vultures occupied the lower limbs of a stand of trees fifty yards away. Branches sagged under their weight. Some hopped awkwardly across the bare ground, picking their way as far as the foundation of one of the cabins leveled long ago. Two of them waddled on flat feet, making hissing and grunting noises, as graceless as penguins on dry land. One stood with wings spread, drying his feathers, his legs streaked with white as though he’d defecated on himself. It was clear the meeting had been called to order, but the minutes hadn’t been read. The buzzards had gathered in anticipation of a tasty snack, but nothing was forthcoming. In consequence, they seemed ill-tempered and out of sorts. I kept an eye on them, hoping they wouldn’t regard me as a canapé.

  On closer inspection, I could tell someone had been here recently. Wood had been gathered and piled to one side. I could see the remnants of a campfire that had been doused with water. When I checked with my bare hand, the ashes were cold. There was a flattened spot where a tent had been erected. The tent stakes had been driven into the hard ground in the shape of a hefty square. Various scuffle marks suggested that the tent had been taken down and stowed in some form. I’m not a camper, so I don’t really know how these things are done. A palm frond had been used as a makeshift broom before it was tossed aside. A fine sweep of dirt formed a fan shape, but there was no way to judge what had been there before.

  A large plastic trash bin had been dragged into the clearing. Someone had tossed in a plastic grocery bag loaded with empty baked bean cans, the packaging for hot dogs, and an empty cellophane wrapper for the hot dog buns. They’d rounded out this wholesome repast with a bag of Fritos, also depleted. I was starving to death and found myself staring wistfully at the wrappings from a packet of moon pies.

  I walked the periphery of the campsite. No empty beer cans. No rolling papers or joints. I wasn’t sure what they’d done to amuse themselves. A number of the old cabins had been bulldozed and the construction debris had been used to fill the old swimming pool. The concrete rim looked like the edging for an Olympic-sized flower bed. I could almost hear the nine-year-old boys shrieking as they did cannonballs off the side. The “fill” was a treacherous-looking tangle of old fencing and broken-up lumber where the cabin remnants had been pushed into this final resting place. There must have been an argument about the virtues of removing the rubble versus leaving it where it was, but since the twice-abandoned campground wasn’t slated for further use, economic imperatives had prevailed. The pool was tucked in among the ancient trees, so the sunlight wouldn’t have penetrated far and the surface of the water would have been subject to slime where falling leaves rotted.

  Some of the underbrush had been broken off or crushed underfoot. The raw pith indicated that a vehicle might have been driven across it recently. In the meantime, the buzzards kept a close eye on me. One of them, with a great flapping of wings, managed to become airborne and two others followed suit. What worried me was the occasional whiff of dead dog. This might have been a deer carcass, but I didn’t think so. The odor wasn’t directional. I turned this way and that but I couldn’t pinpoint the source. This was now Thursday and Fritz had been missing since the previous Friday. I peered down the steep hillside. Maybe twenty-five yards down the slope, I saw a crumpled form. It looked like someone had fallen down the hill and now lay in a clumsy tangle, dead to the world.

  Gingerly I sidestepped my way down, trying to keep my balance as the loose dirt slipped out from underfoot and traveled in a mini-avalanche in advance of my approach. When I reached the form, I realized it was a discarded sleeping bag, empty to all appearances. I peered closely at the opening where the zipper was caught in a fold of fabric. No bullet holes or dried blood. I left it where it was. Impossible to tell how long it had been there. I made the return climb, sending a shower of additional dirt down the hill.

  When I reached the top, I stood in the clearing and did a complete 360 turn. I could have been smelling sewer gas, but it occurred to me that a campground like this, in the midst of a wilderness, couldn’t be connected to the city sewer system because the logistics would have been impossible. Which suggested a septic tank. Septic systems are meant to be as inconspicuous as possible. Once they’re installed, the grass grows back, time passes, and few visual cues remain. I crossed to the ruins of one of the cabins, circled the foundation until I located a four-inch pipe at the point where it surfaced outside. I figured the septic tank would have to be ten to twelve feet from the nearest structure, so I paced off twenty-five giant steps and began to walk. Seven minutes later, I located a rectangle of concrete, easily five feet by eight. Here, the smell was strong enough to activate my gag reflex. I used the hem of my T-shirt to cover my mouth and nose. This filtered the odor to some extent. There was a single 4-by-4-foot concrete lid in the center of the rectangle that bore an enormous iron ring. One try and I knew the cap was too heavy and awkward to manage on my own.

  One of the vultures sailed down within range and landed on the concrete with a series of hops. He tilted his head, peering at the source of the smell, and then fixed me with a black and beady eye. His head was small in proportion to his body, red in color, his long neck bald. I’ve been told the paucity of feathers works to the bird’s advantage when so much of his time is spent with his head in the bellies of dead animals. He made an aggressive feint in my direction and I backed away step by step.

  I returned to the highway on the old gravel road, carefully making my way down the hill. I returned to my car and drove as far as the nearest scenic turnout, where I’d seen a call box. I punched in 9-1-1 and talked to a dispatcher, de
tailing where I was, what I knew, and what I suspected. Then I waited for the first patrol car to arrive. Though I wouldn’t have confirmation for another few hours, Fritz McCabe wasn’t far away.

  33

  THE DRAWING OF STRAWS

  June 1979

  Bayard stood at the sink with a dish towel tucked in the waistband of his jeans. It was close to nine and the party was winding down. The kitchen window had been closed, but he could still smell the light perfume of chlorine from the pool. Darkness would soon settle over the patio, erasing the day. Austin had flapped open an oversize plastic garbage bag, into which he shoved used paper plates, plastic ware, soft drink cans, crumpled napkins, and leftover food. Most of the time Austin played King of the Hill, happy to be regarded as the man of the hour. School was out and he told everyone his parents had offered him the cabin for the party. Bayard had his doubts. More likely it was Austin’s idea and he’d failed to tell his good old mom and dad that he was entertaining. Now he was busy covering his tracks, erasing every vestige of the gathering. Austin, for all of his braggadocio, was a chickenshit at heart.

  Bayard was nicely drunk, his inebriation buffered by the dope he’d smoked, each balancing the other in terms of their effect. The alcohol made him loose. The cannabis made him mellow. Bayard never got falling-down drunk and he was never out of control. This bunch of high school yahoos drank and smoked to excess and they were all over the place, passing out, puking, laughing like hyenas, munching down everything in sight. Or in the case of Patti Gibson and Stringer, getting it on in one of the guest rooms. Bayard’s thoughts flitted to his dad’s diagnosis and the most recent test results. Things were not looking good. They’d done a CAT scan with contrast and Maisie said his dad’s insides lit up like a Christmas tree. Bayard shut the door on that idea. Certain subjects he didn’t like to visit even in the privacy of his own head. Especially matters related to his father’s death.

  He’d learned to toss painful issues into little boxes with the lids nailed shut; this when he was five years old and his parents got divorced. Even at that age, he recognized the jeopardy he was in. He was the focus of the hostilities—not his person, but the fact that he was Tigg and Joan Montgomery’s only begotten son. They quarreled, through their attorneys, over legal custody, physical custody, visitation, child support, schooling, and every other decision that was made from the moment they separated. He was pulled this way and that, loyal to one parent at the expense of the other, which generated its own anguish. Into the box with that one, he thought. Sometimes he knew how good it would be when one or the other of his parents died, which would, at least, cut the agony by half. In his father’s case, it looked like his wish was coming true. Recent revelations had threatened his financial expectations and he still hadn’t decided what options he had, if any. For now, he’d medicated his rage to a manageable level.

  Stringer came into the kitchen, in the process of rounding everyone up for the drive back to town. “Where’s Iris?”

  “On the couch last I saw,” Bayard said. He turned and verified her presence in the living room. “How you doing?” he called though the open door.

  “I think I’m going to be sick,” she said.

  Stringer said, “Well, do it somewhere else. I’m outta here and I don’t want you barfing in my van. You with me, Michelle?”

  “Sure.”

  Austin said, “What the fuck, Michelle. You’re taking off? This place is a mess. You can’t just walk out and leave me with this.”

  “I told you I had a curfew. I don’t go with him, how’m I going to get home in time?”

  “What a load of crap! It’s still light outside. What time’s your curfew, nine o’clock? Hold your horses and I’ll take you. I told you I would.”

  “Sure. When and if you ever get around to it.”

  Stringer stuck his head in the front door. “Hey, Michelle. You coming or not?”

  “Hang on just a second, okay?”

  Stringer disappeared.

  Michelle said, “Austin, I really have to get home. Bayard’s doing dishes and the trash has been dumped so what more do you want?”

  “I want this place cleaned up. Bring in stuff from the patio and gather up all the soggy towels so I can start a load. Ten minutes more is all I ask.”

  Michelle was annoyed, but she seemed resigned. “Shit. Let me get my purse. I left it in Stringer’s van.”

  Austin lifted the plastic bag, which was bulging with trash. He tied the plastic strands in a knot and put the bag by the back door. He turned his attention to the kitchen counter, which was littered with condiments. He replaced the cap on the ketchup, recapped the mustard, and placed both in the refrigerator.

  Troy came into the kitchen. He’d changed from his bathing suit into jeans and a white T-shirt. “Where’s Michelle off to?”

  “She left her bag in Stringer’s van. She’s coming back.”

  “Man, I don’t think so. She got in the van and they all took off.”

  “Stringer did?”

  “Right. Him, Betsy, Patti, and Roland Berg. They couldn’t wait to get out of here. Rats deserting a sinking ship. They probably thought you were going to ask them to pitch in for the keg.”

  “What about Blake?”

  “Him, too. I saw him scoot over to make room so Michelle could crawl in the back.”

  “Damn it! She said she’d help.”

  Troy said, “Apparently not, pal. I guess she didn’t want to get into an argument.”

  Fritz wandered into the kitchen, dressed except for his feet, which were bare. “Anybody seen my shoes?”

  “In your hand,” Austin said.

  “Oh, yeah. Thanks.”

  “You know what? This is the last of my parties you’re invited to. Go hang out with those bullshit sophomore friends of yours.”

  Sloan, coming into the kitchen from the patio, caught this exchange. She was still in her bikini and flip-flops and she carried a stack of empty punch glasses that she tossed in the trash. “Why are you on his ass? He didn’t do anything.”

  “He doesn’t have to do anything. He gets on my nerves.”

  “Give him a break. You don’t have to put him down in front of everyone.”

  “What’s your problem?”

  “I’m just tired of your being such a shit to everyone.”

  “What, now you’re the champion of the underdog? Fritz can look after himself. He doesn’t need you coming to his rescue.”

  “Don’t turn this into a pissing contest, Austin. I’m asking you to get off his case. And mine, too, while you’re at it.”

  “And I’m asking you to shut your big mother and butt out.”

  Sloan suddenly laughed. “Oh my god, did you hear what you just said. You said shut your ‘big mother’ instead of shut your big mouth. Talk about a Freudian slip. That’s hysterical.”

  “Ha . . . ha . . . ha,” Austin said, giving each word emphasis. “And by the way, where’s the tape? The deal was you’d bring it with you.”

  “I forgot.”

  “I’m tired of talking about this. Why don’t you go put on some clothes, Miss Porky Pig. I can’t believe you’d wear that bikini and leave all your fat hanging out. It’s obscene.”

  Troy said, “Hey!”

  Sloan’s smile died. “That was in bad taste, even for you.”

  “Oh, lighten up. Can’t you take a joke?”

  Sloan said, “I’d tread easy if I were you. Keep in mind the fact that you want something from me. I don’t want anything from you.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means, oops, I told a fib. I don’t have the tape at my house. I left it somewhere else. I’ll give it to you as soon as I get it back.”

  “And when would that be?”

  She shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  “Well,
who has it? You have no business giving it to anyone else.”

  “But I did.”

  “What are you trying to pull?”

  “I’m training you to be nice. I know it’s an alien concept, but I’m sure you can learn. The deal was treat me nice or no tape.”

  “The deal was no more shunning.”

  “No, Austin. That was your claim. You called off the shunning voluntarily. You said it was a done deal. You said if I gave you the tape, we’d be square.”

  “Right.”

  “So you didn’t say you’d go on treating me like shit. That’s not going to work.”

  “You know what? Trying to control me is a bad idea.”

  “Just give it some thought.”

  “Give what some thought?”

  “Being nice. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go put some clothes on my porky self.”

  “About time, you oinker.”

  Sloan left the kitchen and moved into the living room, headed for the master bedroom, where she’d left her clothes.

  Austin said, “What a bitch. Did you hear that? What makes her think she can threaten us?”

  “What threat? Why do you push everything to such extremes?” Bayard asked, annoyed.

  Austin moved into the living room and opened the end table drawer. He took out the Astra and checked the magazine. “She still has the tape, doesn’t she? Or did she give it to you?”