CHAPTER NINE

The western part of Marin County is a world in itself, a spectacularly endowed strip of coast and countryside that has as yet managed to escape the ravages of industrial growth, overpopulation, and tourism. Much of this has to do with the weather, which is often foggy and cold; other factors are the sluggish economy and lack of jobs, coupled with the long, inconvenient commute across the ridge off hills that separates West Marin from the rest of the county. The presence of some sixty large diary ranches guarantees that a good deal of acreage will be devoted to agricultural use; the Point Reyes National Seashore and Golden Gate National Recreation Area further ensure that much of the land will remain as it was when the Miwok Indians roamed it, before the Spanish incursions of the early nineteenth century.

Up to now my experience with West Main had been of the ordinary tourist nature; picnics at the Seashore, a tour of the Point Reyes lighthouse, oysters at Nick’s Cover, Sunday drives on two-lane roads through the dairylands, and—of course—the Czech restaurant. I’d even once spent the night at the Olema Inn, a former stage stop in a hamlet of less than one hundred people, but by and large my knowledge of the area was gleaned from newspaper features and the California history course that every public school student is forced before graduating. Although I’d heard tales of insularity and occasional hostility towards strangers from east of the hills, I’d had no direct experience with it, nor had I had any real personal contact with the residents.

I drove out that day on a country road that crested White’s Hill beyond Fairfax. The topography was softly rolling, with frequent outcroppings of gray rock that rose like cairns from the sun-bleached grass. Gnarled live oak clustered in the gullies or stood lone and wind-bent on the hillsides. At Olema the road cross Coast Highway One and continued toward Inverness.

The highway skirted the marshland at the southeast end of the Tomales Bay. Although it had been sunny and warm in what I thought of as Marin proper, fog hung still and thick above the tule grass; it lurked in the hollows of the heavily forested hills, and I caught the smell of woodsmoke from the fireplaces of homes that were occasionally visible through the foliage. Buckeye trees were in full pink bloom, and wildflowers and white anise grew along the sides of the road. Buildings appeared here and there—a grocery, a pottery studio, the ubiquitous antique stores and real estate offices. A sign indicated a salt-marsh wildlife refuge; when I looked toward it, I saw a trio of white long-necked cranes standing placidly among the reeds.

After a few miles I reached Inverness itself: a post office that shared a pale blue Victorian building with a pizza parlor; the Czech restaurant and a couple of other small eateries; a few shops that seemed mainly designed to cater to the tourist trade; a Chevron station. I pulled into the station, got out of the MG, and located a man in a heavy plaid jacket who was staring glumly under the hood of a beat-up Toyota. There were cables attached to the car’s battery, but the meter on the recharging machine indicated nothing was happening. The man turned away with a discouraged shrug and saw me.

“Help you, ma’am?”

“I hope so.” I held out a piece of paper on which I’d written Libby Ross’s address. “Can you tell me how to get there?”

He studied it, frowning. “Don’t go much by house numbers out there. Who’re you looking for?”

“Libby Ross.”

He smiled; from the way it touched his eyes, I could tell he liked the woman. “What you want is Moon Ridge Stables. Stay on the main road here, follow it along the water and up the hill past the sign for the Seashore. A ways beyond that the road’ll fork; you keep to the right—that’s Pierce Point. Libby’s place is just this side of Abbotts Lagoon—four, maybe four and a half miles. Big place down in the hollow, with cypress all around it.”

“What is it—a riding stable?”

“Sort of. Libby rents horses to tourists, leads pack trips to the Seashore.” His expression sharpened with small-town curiosity. “Guess you don’t know her personal.”

“Not yet. Thanks for the directions.” I smiled at him and went back to the MG.

As instructed, I continued along the road. It hugged the shore of the bay, where there were cottages with long docks extending out into the gray, choppy water. I saw a motel, a yacht club, a barbecue restaurant, and a rather bizarre house with turrets that reminded me of a Greek Orthodox church. Then the road began to wind uphill through a conifer forest; I swerved sharply coming around a curve, to avoid a pair of joggers. Shortly after the sign for the Point Reyes National Seashore appeared, the road forked; Pierce Point veered to the right, toward McClure’s Beach.

Within a mile the countryside flattened to dairy graze. Cows stood in clumps or stared stupidly at the road through the fences. Vegetation became sparser—mainly yellow gorse and flowering thistles. The land stretch toward bluffs that overlooked the distant sea and bay, its barrenness broken only by clusters of ranch buildings. Although I encountered a few bicyclists and several other cars, the desolation overwhelmed me, flattening my spirits; I wondered what this place would be like in the dark of a moonless night.

When I traveled a little under four miles, I came to a sharp bend in the road and caught my first unobstructed view of the Pacific breakers crashing onto a sand beach. A backwater extended inland, cut off now at low tide. Its motionless surface mirrored the somber sky. Abbotts Lagoon, I supposed.

I came out of the hairpin turn and pulled into an overlook. Below me the land dropped away steeply, then sloped gently to the lagoon. Tucked into a hollow between two cypress-covered knolls was a collection of buildings—white, and small as toys from this vantage. I drove about twenty yards further before I spotted a weathered sign for the Moon Ridge Stables. A rutted dirt driveway led away through the pastureland.

I followed it, avoiding the deeper potholes. As I neared the first grove of cypress I saw a long, low house tucked under them, its paint mostly scoured off by the elements. The drive continued through more pastureland, and then I came to a paddock where a half dozen motley-looking horses huddled by an empty feed rack; beyond it was a weathered barn and various other outbuildings. Two heavily bundled riders straddled a pair of pintos directly in front of the barn door, and a woman squatted beside one, checking the saddle girth. When she heard my car, she glanced over her shoulder at it, then went on with what she was doing. All I could make out was her longish curly dark blond hair.

I brought the MG to a stop next to the paddock’s rail fence. When I got out, the wind buffeted me, strong and bitterly cold even in this protected place. The woman straightened, wiping her palms on the thighs of her faded jeans. After a few words with her, the riders started off toward a bridle path that snaked under the trees in the direction of the lagoon.

The woman turned and came toward me, moving in a long, athletic stride. She was tall and rangy, with a generous mouth and startling violet eyes. Although she was only in her forties, her skin was as weathered as the paint on the barn, but the lines and furrows gave an odd attractiveness to what otherwise would have been a plain face.

“Hello,” she called in a husky voice. “What can I do for you?”

I moved around the MG. “I’m looking for Libby Heikkinen Ross.”

The woman slowed, a wariness entering her eyes. “That’s me.”

“You the owner?” I gestured around us.

“Owner and sole employee, unless you count my worthless stepson and the kid who cleans out the stalls.” Her tone was friendly but guarded. She stopped, folding her arms across the front of her blue down jacket.

I went up to her and handed her on of my cards. She studied it, then said flatly, “Is this about Dick?”

“Dick?”

“My stepson, the useless little bastard.”

“No.” A sudden blast of cold air rushed down from the knoll behind us, whipping my jacket open. “Is there someplace warmer we can talk?”

She nodded curtly and led me to the barn. There was a shed attached to one side—a tack room. Saddles rested on pegs along three walls, bridles and halters hanging from hooks above them. Each was labeled with an individual horse’s name: Chaucer, Shakespeare, Dickens, Moliere. Ross obviously had a literary bent.

A bench ran along the wall next to the door, a wooden desk wedged into the corner. Ross scooped a pile of saddle blankets from the bench and motioned for me to sit. A tortoiseshell cat that had been sleeping behind the blankets looked up in mild annoyance.

As I sat, Ross took the desk chair for herself, propping her sneakered feet on the blotter. The tortoiseshell recognized a cat lover and jumped into my lap. It curled into a ball, the purr motor starting immediately. I stroked it, feeling vaguely ill at ease—unwilling to awaken the old feeling of comfort that a cat in the lap engenders.

Ross said, “So what is it?”

“Do you know a man named Perry Hilderly?”

Her reaction was totally unlike Goodhue’s or Grants. Surprise spread across her face, mingled with a bittersweet pleasure. “Yes,” she said eagerly. “What about him?”

“He died last month.”

The pleased expression faded. “. . . I didn’t know that. How?”

“He was killed by a sniper, in San Francisco. Haven’t you seen anything about the random shootings in the papers or on TV?”

She shook her head. “I don’t have a TV, and I don’t take a paper. Suppose that sounds strange in this day and age, but when I came out here I wanted to keep the rest of the world at bay. So far, I’ve pretty much succeeded.”

“Why is that?”

She didn’t say anything at first, merely studied her fingernails, which were filed nearly to the quick. Finally she shrugged. “There’s nothing but pain in the world. My husband and I built ourselves a safe cocoon here on the ranch. Now that he’s gone I value it all the more.”

I wondered what had happened to hurt them so badly, but was afraid she would close up if I asked. “I see. Well, the reason I’m here is that shortly before he died, Perry Hilderly made a will leaving you a fourth of his estate—about a quarter of a million dollars.”

She looked up, violet eyes widening. “Why?”

“I don’t know. Can you tell me?”

She shook her head.

“Mrs. Ross, do you know Thomas Y. Grant?”

“Who? No—name’s not familiar.”

“What about Jess Goodhue?”

“No.”

“Jenny Ruhl?”

She took her feet off the desk and grasped the arms of the chair, as if to keep from jumping up. “Jenny . . . Jenny’s been dead for years.”

“Yes, but her daughter’s alive—Jess Goodhue.”

“I remember she had a baby, Jessica. Where did she get that last name?”

“It’s adoptive. Jess Goodhue is another beneficiary of Hilderly’s will, as is Tom Grant. Goodhue thinks Hilderly may have been her father.”

A peculiar smile came to Ross’s lips—twisted, butter. “I can assure you he wasn’t. He most certainly was not.”

“Who was?”

She hesitated. “All I can say is that it wasn’t Perry.”

“But you don’t want to say why you’re so sure?”

“No.”

“What was your relationship with Hilderly and Jenny Ruhl?”

Another long silence. “Jenny and I went to grade school together. Perry and I went back a long way, too. But I haven’t heard from him in years, and I’m very surprised that he would leave me money.” She looked around the dreary, drafty track room. “Not that I can’t use it. I’m barely holding things together here since Glen died.”

“Glen was your husband?”

She nodded. “Maybe you’ve heard of him—former wide receiver with the Rams?”

I shook my head.

Ross sighed. “Well, it was a long time ago. Glen got mixed up in the high life—blew a couple of marriages, a lot of money, his career. Took what was left and came up here, looking for property. I met him while I was working in a real-estate office in Tomales. We made our own world out here, and not a bad one at that.”

“Mrs. Ross,” I said after a moment, “please tell me about your relationship with Hilderly. It’s important—”

“Do I need to, in order to claim the inheritance?”

“No. It’s clear that you’re the Libby Heikkinen named in his will, and his wishes will be carried out.”

“In that case, I don’t want to talk about it. It’s past history—long past, and much too sad.”

I switched to a different tack. “There was a fourth beneficiary whom I’ve been unable to located—David Arlen Taylor. Can you tell me where—”

“D.A.?” Again she looked surprised; then the bitter smile returned. “Sure I can tell you. He’s where he’s been the past fifteen years, where he’ll be until he dies—over on the other side of the bay.”

“Tomales Bay?”

“Uh-huh. His family owns a restaurant and oyster beds a mile or two up the highway from Nick’s Cove.”

“Is he a friend of yours?”

She seemed to consider. “We’re . . . something like that. I came up here in the first place because I thought I could help D.A. Took me four damn years to realize there wasn’t anything that was going to help. Then I married Glen down in San Francisco, where he was waiting for me to make up my mind. For years I’ve had a life of sorts. But I’m still here for D.A. He knows where to find me, if he needs me.”

“What’s wrong with him, that he needs help?”

She pulled out the lower drawer of the desk and propped her feet on it, obviously more at ease with the subject of Taylor than Hilderly or Ruhl. “D.A.’s a substance abuser,” she said. “He’ll use anything that takes the edge off. Generally it’s alcohol, grass. Pills or crack when he can get them. Coke or ice when he can afford it.”

“Do you know why?”

“I know, but it’s not worth talking about. In a way his reasons are the same ones that keep me here with only the wind and my memories for company. But at least I tried to rejoin the world—for a while. D.A. never did.”

“What do you mean—rejoin the world?”

She shrugged. “Just a figure of speech. It’s funny with D.A.: he got married about six years ago. Nice wife. A lot younger than him. She’s Miwok—so is he, partly. Lots of Indians around here.” She paused, studying my face. “Come to think of it, you look like you’ve got some Indian blood, too.”

“Only an eighth. Shosone. About D.A.?”

“Well, he and his wife have a little boy and girl. Cute kids. You would have thought it’d change things for him, but it didn’t. He’s till the same old D.A.

“He must be special to you, that you moved here to try to help him.”

“Yeah, well, maybe I needed to help myself.”

I remained silent, sensing that if I asked what she meant, I would just get another shrug. Outside, the wind baffled around the building, setting loose the shingles to rattling above our heads. The cat stirred, stood up and arched its back in a stretch, circled, then settled down again.

Finally I asked, “Are you sure you don’t know Thomas Y. Grant?”

“Like I said, the name’s not familiar. But it’s a common one; maybe I’ve forgotten him. Who is he?”

“A lawyer in San Francisco. Specialize in divorce work for men only.”

“Oh, one of those. Describe him, would you?”

”He’s in his early fifties, I’m told, but looks younger. Tall, well built, thick gray hair, handsome, except for a scar on his left cheek that reminds me of something out of The Student Prince.

When I mentioned the scar, Ross didn’t react as dramatically as she had to Jenny Ruhl’s name, “but there was a tightening in the lines around her mouth. “This Grant lives in San Francisco?”

”Yes.”

“Where? Is he well off?”

The question puzzled me, but I said, “He must be. He has a house on Lyon Street in Pacific Heights. And the law firm’s a big one, with offices in other cities.”

“And on top of that he inherits money from Perry. Coals to Newcastle, I’d say.”

I watched her, wondering if I’d imagined her reaction to the description of Grant. After a moment she added, “Not that the money’s going to do D.A. any good, either. Unless Mia gets her hands on it fast, it’ll all go up his nose.”

“Mia’s his wife?”

“Yeah. You planning to go over there?”

“Right after I leave here.”

“Well, try to talk to Mia first, if she’s there. No telling what condition D.A.’s in from day to day.”

I nodded, but remained sitting, understandably reluctant to rush into what promised to be an unpleasant situation. Besides, I wasn’t sure I’d gotten all I could from Ross. Possibly—if I steered clear of the subject of Hilderly or Ruhl—she might open up to me. I said, “Your land here—is it part of the National Seashore?”

“Yeah. I’ve got it on long-term lease. The government encourages dairy ranching, for aesthetic and economic reasons.”

“The stable doesn’t turn a profit; I only keep it going because I love horses. The dairy business I contract out to the neighbor to the east. It keeps a roof over my head and food on the table, but that’s about it. Glen loved it here; sometimes I think that’s why I stay on.” But Ross, in spite of the fact that she must be lonely for company, didn’t seem eager for further conversation. She stood, stretching her rangy body much as the cat had stretched its furry one. “When you go see D.A., don’t---well, don’t take anything he says to seriously.”

“What do you think he might say?”

“God knows. The man’s off in another world, has been for years. He . . . well, you know what that kind of abuse can do to a person’s mind.” She reached down and took the cat off my lap, a clear hint.

As we walked toward my car, Ross said, “What do I have to do to claim the money?”

“Nothing. Hilderly’s attorney is going to enter the will into probate, and he’ll contact you.”

“Good. Like I said, I can damn well use it.”

When we reached the MG, however, Ross suddenly seemed unwilling to let me go. She leaned against it, cradling the cat to her down jacket and staring out over the headland toward the lagoon. The two riders who had been here earlier had reached the end of the trail and sat on their mounts beside the grassy water. The pinto’s mottled coats were reflected on its surface.

“That lagoon,” Ross said, “it’s named for a man who ran cattle on this land back in the mid eighteen hundreds—Carlyle Abbott. The story is that Abbott was a heroic type. A ship—the Sea Nymph—was wrecked out there off the coast in eighteen sixty-one. Abbott tied himself to some bystanders with lariats and went into the surf after the crew. Saved them all, except for the ship’s steward. Steward was the first recorded drowning victim off Point Reyes.”

She paused, gaze fixed on the distance. “I’m not much on history, but that story’s always stuck with me. Guess I find it symbolic. I came out here to save D.A., but I couldn’t. Now he’s sort of a drowning victim.”