Seventeen

What if? It was a line of questioning worth pursuing.

I leafed farther back through the photos, past the juniors, looking through the sophomore class until I found a picture of Martha Newman, aka Willow. She looked very young, not surprising since she would have been fifteen or sixteen years old when the photo was taken. She had a wistful, tentative smile on her round face. Her hair was dark, falling to her shoulders in unruly curls, and she hadn’t dressed up the day the class pictures were taken. I didn’t find any other photos of her in the yearbook, but I did find two more photos of Rick Newman, candid pictures instead of the senior class studio portrait.

I used my cell phone camera to take photos of the pictures I’d found of Rick and Martha Newman. Then I replaced the yearbook in the box, left the office, and walked up the hall to the living room. Lance was there with his daughter, talking with her about her day.

“Did you find what you needed?” He set down his wineglass and walked me to the front door.

“Yes, thanks.”

“Let me know if you hear anything from Brian.”

“I will.”

My car had been sitting in the afternoon sun for a couple of hours now, and it felt like an oven. I rolled down the windows and removed the top from the stainless steel bottle of water I kept in the front seat. The water was warm by now, but it was still wet. I took a couple of drinks and capped the bottle. Then I dug in my bag for the notebook where I’d written the phone number for Steven Kennett, Willow’s stepfather. This time I got Mr. Kennett himself. He agreed to talk with me later this afternoon and gave me directions to his home in Cotati.

I started the car and drove east, getting on the freeway headed north. When I reached Santa Rosa I took the Highway 12 exit west, then angled to the northwest on Occidental Road, which cut to the north of Sebastopol. This winding two-lane highway led through gentle, rolling terrain dotted with houses and farms, then into a landscape of tall coastal redwoods that covered the hills.

Occidental is a small town of about a thousand people. It dates back to the eighteen-seventies. At one time it was a stop on the North Pacific Coast railroad that went all the way to Sausalito, in Marin County. It was a timber town, with half a dozen sawmills. Nowadays Occidental is known for its restaurants, shops and art galleries, and its location on the scenic Bohemian Highway, which runs from Highway 12 north to the Russian River.

I turned left, off Occidental Road onto Bohemian Highway, and drove slowly through the middle of the town. I spotted Hestia Gallery in a stretch of shops near the Howard Station Café. I pulled into a parking spot.

Ceramic pots near the gallery’s front door held an assortment of petunias, pansies, marigolds, and zinnias. In the front window, I saw a sign explaining that Hestia was the Ancient Greek goddess of architecture and domesticity. Her symbol was the hearth and its fire, and I saw a drawing of both at the bottom of the sign.

I entered the gallery and walked through the front section. On the wall to the right, about twenty feet from the door, was an L-shaped glass-enclosed display case holding jewelry and other small items. At the corner of the L was a cash register and a holder with business cards. Several postcards decorated the counter, advertising art shows and fairs. I glanced through these and saw one advertising the upcoming Gravenstein Apple Fair in Sebastopol.

The hearth-and-fire logo was repeated on business cards, which showed the gallery’s address and phone number, and a name, Avie Northrup. I guessed this was the silver-haired woman who was behind the display case, talking with a customer who was looking at several pairs of earrings.

I circled the front section of the gallery, glancing at the wares made by local artists. In a basket near the door, I saw several packets of note cards with birds on the front, the same cards Becca had had in her bag the day before. One of these had the scene of the yellow-rumped warbler, the card Willow sent to my brother. I picked up a packet and looked at the back, checking the name of the artist. Then my eye was drawn upward, to a small watercolor done by the same artist. It showed a male Anna’s hummingbird, and the artist had caught the iridescence of the bird’s red-pink head and neck, a contrast with its gray-green body.

Dad would like that, I thought. And he had a birthday coming up.

I turned to examine the wall opposite the counter. Here were shelves displaying an assortment of pottery. Many of the pieces were functional items, cups, dishes, vases, bowls, and small pots.

I spotted a large green mug, similar to the one my brother had purchased from Willow. I picked it up and turned it over, seeing the distinctive willow-leaf mark with the “W” inside. Next to this was a vase in the same purplish red shade as Brian’s mug, then a set of three blue bowls, each a bit larger than the other. The piece I really liked was an asymmetrical platter in shades of green. I turned it over and looked at the price tag. It was steep, but not unusual for the quality of the work. I set the platter back on the shelf.

At the end of the long shelf I saw a three-ring binder with a cover that read POTTERY BY WILLOW. I picked it up and opened it. The binder contained photographs of Willow’s larger and more artistic pieces. She made hand-thrown dishes in sets of six, and they sold for a price in the four figures. There were more platters like the one I’d been looking at. If a customer wanted a larger piece, Willow could be commissioned to make something to order, such as birdbaths and garden statuary.

The prices I saw listed in the binder were a revelation. I looked through the pictures of work Willow had already done and figured she must be making a living at it. At the back of the book was a sheet that indicated her work could be purchased here, at Hestia Gallery, or through her website. I took my notebook from my bag and jotted down the website URL, so I could look at it later.

The customer at the display case selected a pair of earrings. The silver-haired woman rang up the purchase. Then, as the customer departed the gallery, the woman approached me. She was short and sturdy, clad in a pair of blue slacks with a light blue shirt and comfortable low-heeled shoes.

“Good afternoon. May I help you?”

“What can you tell me about this potter, Willow?” I set the binder back on the shelf.

“Willow does beautiful work. She’s local, lives here in the Occidental area. We’re the only gallery that sells her pottery, although she sometimes goes to art fairs.”

Like the fair in Sonoma, where my brother bought the mug. I took a business card from my bag and handed it to her. “My name’s Jeri Howard.”

“Avie Northrup,” she said, examining the card. “I’m the owner. What’s this about?”

“I’m working on a missing persons case. I’d like to talk with Willow. I believe she may have some information that would help me find this person. I understand she lives here in Occidental. Could you put me in touch with her?”

Avie Northrup thought a moment before answering. “She did live in town until recently, but she’s moved. I have a phone number for her. But I can’t give it out, of course. You understand, she likes her privacy. I suppose the best way to get in touch with her is to send her an email message through her website.”

“I plan to do that. It would be helpful if you’d call her and ask her to get in touch with me. The matter is urgent.”

“I will. Though sometimes she’s not good about returning calls.” The gallery owner turned slightly, then stopped. “I just thought of something. The gallery will be having a booth at the apple fair in Sebastopol this coming weekend. Willow promised to bring in some small items for the fair. She said she might drop by the gallery, either tomorrow or Friday. If she doesn’t call you back, maybe you can catch her here.”

“Thanks. I appreciate your help.”

I turned and walked toward the front door, past a middle-aged couple who had just entered. Outside the gallery, I stopped and glanced back through the front window. Avie Northrup greeted the couple. Then she stepped back behind the counter and picked up the telephone.