Judging by the small off-color mushroom cloud hanging over the hill the next morning, Sheriff Billingsly and the county appeared to be waging war on drugs.
Jake suggested we drive into Basking for breakfast.
We wound up at Granny Parker’s Pantry where we had the spacious dining room with its shady view of Main Street America Past all to ourselves.
We ordered from a large lady in a sunny yellow uniform that matched the building’s exterior perfectly.
“After we eat I’m going to do some checking around,” Jake remarked, tossing his menu aside. “Can you keep yourself entertained?”
“What did you have in mind?”
“I just want to check out a couple of things.”
“Like what?”
He shrugged.
Into my silence he added, “One guy poking around asking questions is enough. Two is going to attract the wrong kind of attention.”
I supposed I should be pleased that he was showing an interest. And this was his area of expertise, not mine. But his assumption that I would toddle off and amuse myself shopping or sightseeing nettled.
The waitress brought our breakfast. Jake had his usual smorgasbord: slab of ham, four eggs, biscuits & gravy, and large orange juice. He regarded my bowl of oatmeal, forehead wrinkling.
“That’s it? That’s all you’re eating?”
“Unlike you I don’t have to sustain the equivalent of a small country.”
Unexpectedly he reddened. “This is muscle, not fat.”
I didn’t doubt it. What I’d seen of Jake so far was all lean mean fighting machine. I was surprised he’d be sensitive about it.
“I didn’t say you were fat. I said there was a lot of you.”
With an evil glance, he subsided into his coffee cup. I realized the waitress had heard this exchange and was scandalized to the fibers of her hair net. Do heterosexual males not discuss weight? Was it something in the tone of our voices? Or was she alarmed because she had pegged us as the infamous dope dealing, 9-1-1-calling foreigners? Whatever it was, I hoped Jake didn’t take notice. He was so comfortable under his imagined cloak of invisibility. I didn’t want this vacation from his warped reality spoiled.
I had my third cup of coffee as Jake polished off the last of his fried eggs.
“I guess I could drop by the library. I need a copy of Titus. I forgot mine at home.”
Jake nodded, not really listening.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said at last, wiping his plate down with biscuit, “about who tipped the sheriffs to the pot.”
“It could have been anyone. Hikers.”
“Where are these archeologists camped? Just over that little mountain, aren’t they?”
“Yes.” I followed his line of reasoning. “Anyone of them could have noticed the stuff growing and called the cops. But why?”
“Retaliation? You’re threatening to pull the plug on their sandbox.”
“Maybe.” I dwelt on this. “That’s pretty vindictive for a bunch of pothunters.” But were they all amateurs? Students were not technically amateurs. Dr. Marquez and Dr. Shoup were not students and did not strike me as amateurs either. Dr. Shoup seemed like a man who took things — himself in particular — seriously. “Maybe there’s another purpose behind calling the cops. Maybe they need me out of the way.”
Jake looked pained. “‘Out of the way?’ Adrien —”
“No, listen a sec, Jake….” He listened grimly. “Suppose the point of that phone call was to keep me busy with legal hassles so I wouldn’t have time to worry about who was digging what up where.”
“Huh?”
“Suppose, just suppose, there’s some — some — skullduggery going on in Spaniard’s Hollow?”
“Don’t tell me, let me guess,” Jake said. “They’re digging for buried treasure.”
“Well, I don’t know about that.”
Jake’s eyebrows rose. “You don’t? That’s something.”
“It’s just a theory.”
“Or that crack on the head.”
“Yeah, but that’s to the point, isn’t it. Who hit me on the head, and why?”
“They weren’t trying to kill you or they would’ve finished the job.”
“Not kill me, just get me out of the way.”
“Agreed,” Jake said crisply, “because you got in the way of searching Harvey’s trailer. That doesn’t have anything to do with skullduggery in the mountains.”
“It might.”
He pushed his plate away. “Last night you were talking about a cop’s gut instinct. My gut instinct tells me these two things are not connected.”
“Let’s hope the equipment is functioning this time around,” I commented. “Two months ago your gut told you I was a serial killer.”
Jake’s eyes narrowed like a tiger tired of playing with his food.
“Hit rewind.” He tapped his forehead with his index finger. “I didn’t think you were a serial killer. I thought you were not telling everything you knew, which was right. I thought you were not being stalked.”
“Which was wrong.”
“Which was ....” He took a deep breath.
“Wrong,” I prompted.
“Wrong,” he conceded.
I grinned. “Just wanted to hear it.”
* * * * *
Following breakfast Jake and I went our separate ways, agreeing to meet back at the car by noon.
I suspected the real reason Jake didn’t want me playing Watson was he would be homing for the sheriff substation where I would be even more persona non grata than he. That was okay by me. I had my own hypothesis, and I could do my own kind of footwork in the library.
I found the library wedged between a coffeehouse and a feed store. It was the kind of place I love, the kind of place they don’t build anymore: weathered brick trimmed in white gingerbread. According to the brass placard by the front door Basking library had been built in the 1923.
Inside it was dark and quiet. Antique tables, lovingly polished over decades of dents and scratches, gleamed in the light of green banker’s lamps. Ceiling-high bookshelves were crammed with faded volumes. This was my turf just as the mean streets of LA were Jake’s.
There was one computer, monopolized by a pugnacious senior cross-referencing mysteries featuring feline detectives. Knowing that could take awhile, I bee-lined for the librarian, requesting books on local history. She directed me toward Mark Twain and Roughing It.
“I was hoping for something on Basking itself. The gold rush years, mining history. Maybe lost mines?”
She looked stumped but then brightened. “Our local historical society put together something like that a few years back. You can probably still buy a copy at Royale House. The museum is right around the corner.”
“Great. Thanks.”
From the way her eyes flickered behind the rhinestone-framed glasses I wondered if my reputation had preceded me. I gave her a reassuring smile and headed for the wooden card catalog located beneath a display of artwork by patients of the local hospital — the mental ward apparently.
I wasn’t exactly sure what I was looking for. I knew there were mines on Granna’s property, no mystery there; this was mining country. I had never heard of the Red Rover, nor of any mine that had panned out in a big way. It was logical that archeologists would be interested in old mining camps. But why this mining camp? The Sierra Nevadas are sprinkled with abandoned mines and placers. I couldn’t find a mention of the Red Rover in any book or article.
It was getting on toward lunch. I walked over to Royale House and bought one of their Histories of Basking Township.
“You’re not taking the tour?” the girl at the counter inquired sardonically. She was tall and slender with long black hair shiny as a raven’s wing and beautiful sloe eyes. Part Indian, I thought. The Tuolumne Reservation was on the other side of the pine forest, and the Tule Reservation by Porterville was one of the largest in the state.
“What tour?”
“For three dollars you can walk through the house. Three stories. Count ’em, three.” She pointed to a shelf of Walkmans which must have taken the place of a decrepit tour guide. “For another two dollars you can enjoy high tea on the patio.”
Soggy egg salad sandwiches and tea from tea bags if I knew my Historical Society high teas.
“Who were the Royales?”
She quoted, “In 1849, Abraham Royale came west to make his fortune in the gold fields.” She paused to verify my rapt attention. “Abe wasn’t much of a miner; however, he did make his fortune by marrying the only daughter of a wealthy Chinese merchant. Unfortunately polite society — such as it was in Basking in those days — would not accept the “slant-eyed” daughter of a Chinese immigrant. Royale was an ambitious man. He traded in his Chinese bride, minus her dowry, for a local girl.”
Something told me this was not the official version. “What happened to the Chinese bride?”
She smiled, her teeth very white. “There’s no record. Probably died of a broken heart like all gently reared girls of her era.” So said the girl of this era.
“Tactful. What happened to Royale?”
“Ah. Now there’s another story. Royale’s golden-haired Anglo bride ran off with the smithy a year after their society wedding.”
“The smithy?”
“The blacksmith. Smithing is an ancient craft you know. A real manly man kind of profession.”
Her tone was needling although I couldn’t imagine why. I asked, “Did Royale die of a broken heart?”
“No. They say —” her voice lowered dramatically “he died of the curse.”
“Curse? What curse? Don’t tell me the broken-hearted Chinese bride put a hex on him. What kind of gently reared girl behaves like that?”
She tucked a silky strand of black hair behind her ear. “To be honest there are several stories. The only thing we know for sure is Royale fell down the staircase right over there and broke his neck.”
I turned to inspect the ornately carved grand staircase. Falling down that would be like tumbling down a cliff. I nodded toward the enormous portrait hanging over the marble fireplace.
“Is that Royale?”
“That’s him.”
At ten feet tall Royale made an imposing figure. Dark hair, dark eyes and curling mustachios. A man cast in the heroic mold.
“One legend goes that he saw the ghost of his first wife and fell to his death.”
“Is the house haunted?”
She shrugged. “Not that I’ve noticed. Not that I believe in ghosts.”
Wow. How unstereotypical Native American.
As though reading my mind she added dryly, “Don’t tell the tribal elders.”
“Which tribe?”
“Miwok. Penutian Family. You really don’t remember me, do you?”
“Should I?”
Her eyebrows rose. “I thought you were Anna English’s grandson?”
“I am.” When she didn’t offer her hand I offered mine. “Adrien English.”
We shook hands. “Melissa Smith. My father used to work for your grandmother. You locked me in the fruit cellar once.”
“I did?”
I did sort of remember her now. She had been small, skinny and irritating as a foxtail in your sock. “Not for long, I hope.”
“I guess it was only a few minutes. It felt like hours.”
“Sorry.”
“I swore to get even but you never came back.”
“I scare easily.”
“Don’t worry, you’re pretty low on my hit list these days.”
If she was as tough at thirty-two as she had been at eight I hoped she didn’t hold a grudge.
“I’m not up on local history.”
Her dark eyes met mine. She smirked. “No, but you’re making it.”
* * * * *
I had a brief wait for Jake at the Bronco. I washed down a couple of headache tablets with diet soda from a nearby vending machine. At last I spotted him striding up the tree-lined street, in and out of shadow, big and purposeful. Even in jeans and a flannel shirt he looked like a cop. Maybe it was the way he held himself. That mix of confidence and alertness.
He glanced up and saw me, and just for a moment something like a smile flickered across his impassive face.
I started the engine as Jake climbed in beside me.
“How did it go?” I questioned. “Were your fellow fuzz in a cooperative mood?”
He hmmphfed. Drummed his fingers on the door armrest as I pulled out into the light traffic of Tuesday afternoon Main Street.
“Are we playing twenty questions or are you going to tell me what you found out?”
“The last time anyone saw Harvey was Thursday morning when he picked up groceries at the general store. He promised he’d be back the next day to pay his bill.”
“But he was killed Thursday night.”
“Maybe.” He glanced at me. “Harvey has a girlfriend. He might be hiding out there.”
“A girlfriend?”
I’m not sure why I sounded so amazed; probably because Harvey had been presented as such a loser by everyone I’d talked to. Jake said, “Most unmarried adult males do have girlfriends, Adrien.”
I asked innocently, “Including you?”
Jake’s eyes slid away from mine. He said, “The girlfriend might have a photo of Harvey or another lead.”
“Doesn’t Harvey have a police record? Are there mug shots I could look at?”
“Harvey has a couple of drug-related busts from the ’70s. In those days he wore long hair and a beard. I don’t think a thirty second glimpse of a dead man in your headlights will make for an accurate ID.”
He had that right. Already my memory of the man in the road was fading — imagination adding details, time erasing others.
I pulled up at Basking’s one and only signal light, and said, “So where does Harvey’s girlfriend live?”
* * * * *
Marnie Starr lived at #109 Oakridge Drive in a green tarpapered house, at the top of a long flight of rickety stairs.
Marnie came to the door in a striped bathrobe though it was past noon. A tall woman, and built for comfort, she sized up Jake through the screen door mesh.
“Yes?”
“Marnie Starr?” Jake’s stance, that official tone of voice, all spelled cop. I wondered if it was deliberate or something he couldn’t help.
“That’s right.”
“I’m Detective Riordan.” He nodded my way. “English.”
“Detectives?” She stared at us through the cigarette smoke. She was about fifty, long salt and pepper hair, freckled skin that had seen too much sun.
“May we come in?” Jake asked.
Automatically she unlatched the screen and let us in.
The front room was small and cluttered with battered furniture. Copies of The National Enquirer littered the coffee table, headlines screaming alien abductions and movie star infidelities. The room smelled heavily of cigarettes and orchid air freshener.
“Sit down,” Marnie said, gesturing uncertainly. “Cops, huh? If it’s about the dog, I’m bringing him in at night now.”
Jake sat down in a wooden rocker that creaked anxiously. I walked over to study a collection of framed photos on the TV.
“It’s not about the dog,” Jake said. “We’re looking for Ted.”
“Ted? Ted Harvey?”
“That’s right. When was the last time you saw him?”
“Has something happened to Ted?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Well, if you are detectives ....” she sketched the air with the cigarette. Jittery. Very jittery.
“We’re looking for him, that’s all, Ma’am. When was the last time you saw Harvey?”
“Monday night.”
“Last Monday night? You haven’t seen him since?”
Her eyes fell. “Er — no.”
“Did something happen Monday night?”
“No. No, of course not.”
I picked up a photo of Marnie in fatigues and a duck-billed hunting cap. She was holding a rifle. Behind this was another photo of Marnie and a slight, gray-haired man in a sailboat. I studied the man.
“Is this Ted?” I asked Marnie.
She jerked her head around. “Yeah, that’s Ted.”
Jake’s eyes met mine. I nodded.
“What is this?” Marnie demanded suddenly. “You’re not from the Sheriff’s Department.” She indicated me.
“I’m with LAPD,” Jake answered briefly.
“LA ...” Her voice gave out.
“What happened Sunday, Ms. Starr? Did you and Ted fight?”
“It wasn’t a fight. Not really.”
“But you argued?”
Marnie seemed divided. At last she mumbled, “People say things when they’re mad.”
“What kinds of things?”
“I was just angry. I was sick of the promises and the excuses and the big talk. I’m fifty-eight. No spring chicken. Is it so wrong to want a little security?”
I said, “You asked for a commitment?”
Jake gave me an odd look, but Marnie turned toward me eagerly, as though at last someone spoke her language. “Yes.”
“Did you threaten Ted?” Jake probed.
“Th-threaten? Not seriously. I mean, I love him.”
“Uh huh. And how did Ted take this ultimatum?”
“He said he’d show me. That he was going to score big this time.”
“What did he mean by that?” I asked.
She shrugged, stubbing out the cigarette. Then she dug in her bathrobe pocket for the pack. Her hands were shaking as she pulled another one out.
Jake said coolly, “Did Ted ever cheat on you, Ms. Starr?”
She flushed so that her entire face was the color of her freckles.
“No!”
“Did you threaten to kill him?”
“Who told you that?”
“Did you?”
“People say things when they’re angry. It don’t mean anything. Ted knew. Ted used to talk himself.”
“Did he talk about his big score?” As I asked this question Jake shot me a warning look.
“No.” She gestured vaguely. “What’s to tell? He was just blowing smoke.”
“Speaking of which, who’s Harvey’s buyer?” Jake took charge again.
“B-buyer?”
“You heard.”
“I don’t know what —”
“Skip it,” said Jake. “We’re just looking for Harvey. I don’t care if he’s wholesaling weed out of the back of his pickup.”
“Why do you want him then?”
“Let’s just say it’s a matter of life and death.”
She looked doubtful and I didn’t blame her. I thought Jake should have come up with a better story than the truth.
We didn’t get much further with Ms. Starr. She took the card Jake handed her and said she would call if Ted showed. I had no doubt it sailed into the trash before we were down the ramshackle steps.
* * * * *
While Jake vacuumed up a late lunch I moseyed on down to the corrals and, on impulse, went into the barn. Not that I expected to find marijuana drying from the rafters, but you never know.
I entered through the tack room which, even after all these years, smelled hazily of leather and liniment and sawdust. Bridles hung from the walls. A saddle still waited for repair. I walked down the row of empty stalls. In my grandmother’s day the stable had been full of Arabian horses. Small-boned, fiery beauties with large liquidy eyes and graceful arched necks.
I’d had my own horse, a chestnut gelding I had named Flame (inappropriately, given his mild disposition). Following Granna’s death, Flame had been sold with all the others, my mother no doubt fearing that I would break my scrawny neck.
I always assumed it was my father’s early death that left Lisa so fearful about my own prospects. I was, as Lisa frequently pointed out, all she had. This was her own choice; my mother made a lovely, rich young widow. Maybe, as she always said, my father was the great love of her life. Or maybe she had been afraid to trust her luck a second time around. In any case Lisa had seen peril in everything from dogs to bicycles, and her worst fears seemed to have been confirmed when I contracted rheumatic fever at sixteen.
Now I stood in the empty stable breathing in the decaying memory of hay and horses and something bitter as wormwood. My childhood ambition had been to breed Arabians like my grandmother. What would my life have been like if I hadn’t gotten sick? Would I still have ended up running a bookstore? I probably wouldn’t have met Jake.
I recalled another of Lisa’s strictures, the one about “rough boys,” and grinned to myself. If ever anyone qualified as a rough boy it would be Jake.
There was a moth-eaten looking buggy at the far end of the stable. I wandered over to it, thinking what a shame it was to let all this go to the termites and wood rot. Maybe a donation or two to a local museum would earn me a much-needed tax deduction.
I could hear the buzz of insects unnaturally loud in the echoing silence of the cavernous building. I followed the sound back down the center aisle, stopping finally to look over the gate of a stall. Something lay half-buried in the old straw and sawdust. Unlatching the gate, I stepped into the stall.
I could make out the sprawled outline, the pattern of material — plaid flannel.
My heart began to pound with revolted knowledge before my brain made the connection. How the hell had I missed the significance of that sweetish sick smell?
I pulled out my hanky, pressing the cotton folds over my mouth and nose. Within a foot of the thing, I stared down and the buzzing of the flies matched the buzzing in my brain. I desperately wanted fresh air and light. I wanted to run from the barn and close the doors on what lay there in the moldering hay. Close the door and lock it and forget about it.
The physical reality is so different from the academic puzzle.
I squatted down and brushed off pieces of straw.
The days had not been kind to him. But then again neither had been the person who shot to death Ted Harvey.