Nine

As Lakeville Street heads east out of Petaluma, it becomes California Highway 116, or the Lakeville Highway. A few miles out of town, Highway 116 continues toward Sonoma, and the Lakeville Highway turns south along the river.

The Petaluma River is about eighteen miles long. Its headwaters rise near Cotati, a town northwest of Petaluma. The river becomes a tidal slough, emptying into San Pablo Bay, in the northernmost reaches of the larger San Francisco Bay. Lakeville is an unincorporated community located about four miles southeast of Petaluma, on a stretch of road that runs close to the river. The terrain here is open, with few trees. Farmhouses dot the terrain to the east, while to the west, between the road and the river, are sprawling hayfields and high marsh full of pickleweed.

I passed the fire station for the Lakeville Volunteer Fire Department. In a mile or so, I reached Lakeville. There wasn’t much to it, a collection of buildings, some commercial, others homes, cabins really. A quarter mile further south I saw a wooden sign reading NEWMAN’S. I slowed my car and turned right into a gravel parking lot.

Newman’s Roadhouse and Marina was situated on a low bluff overlooking the Petaluma River. The place looked as disreputable as Becca had said. The weathered wood exterior of the one-story building had once been painted blue, but now the paint was cracked and peeling. The front of the building faced the road, with a covered porch made of wood planks. On the left was the roadhouse part, with neon signs advertising beer and burgers. It was late afternoon and there were half a dozen Harleys clustered in front. Several rough-looking bikers lounged in the metal lawn chairs on the front porch. As I got out of my car, they gave me the eye.

The right side of the building looked like the marina office. I took the two steps up to the porch and tried the front door. It was locked. I peered through the grimy window and didn’t see any movement inside.

That left me with the roadhouse. I walked along the porch, past a couple of bikers smoking and talking in low tones, and went into the bar. After the bright August sunshine, it took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to the darkness inside. I saw three men and two women clustered around a table, and two more men playing pool at a table near the back. A dark-haired woman dressed in jeans and a tank top was at the bar, sipping on a beer and eating onion rings. She was chatting with the bartender, who was tall and bulky, with an array of tattoos snaking down each arm. He looked as though he could break up any fights and take on all comers.

“Help you?” he asked as I stepped up to the bar.

“I’m looking for Walt Newman.”

“Not here,” the bartender said. “Don’t know where he is or when he’ll be back.”

I handed him a business card. “It’s about that boat that burned here at the marina early Sunday morning.”

He examined the card. “Private eye, huh. Insurance claim?”

“I do a lot of insurance work,” I said. Which was true, though I wasn’t handling the claim on this particular boat.

The bartender set the card on the counter next to the cash register. “Well, you’re gonna have to pay the claim on that boat. It’s a goner.”

“Just talking to people, to get a handle on what happened.”

The bartender shrugged. “I didn’t see anything but I sure as hell heard it. We’re open till two in the morning. Must have been about one when it happened. Propane explosion. That’s what they say.” He turned to the woman, who’d been listening. “What about you, Francie? Did you see anything?”

“Yeah, I was outside, on the dock by Barney’s boat.” Francie tossed back her long brown hair. “Heard a bang and that sucker went up. It made all the docks and boats rock and roll. People came running with hoses and buckets. Tried to put out the fire but it was burning like crazy. Didn’t do any good till the fire department showed up. It’s a wonder those other boats didn’t catch fire. The dock’s burned, too. They found a body.” She shuddered. “Burned to death like that. What a way to go.”

“Yes, I know about the body. Did you see or hear anything before the explosion?” I asked.

Francie shook her head. “It was a party, music playing, people talking, you know how it is. I didn’t hear anything until the boat exploded. Like I said, I was at Barney’s boat and it’s tied up at the south end of the marina. The boat that burned was at the north end.”

“I heard something.” One of the pool players had left the table. Now he joined us at the bar, listening to the conversation. He was a short guy with a blond ponytail, wearing leathers and a vest that proclaimed his motorcycle club membership. “I was out in the parking lot, smoking. Right before the explosion, I heard something sounded like a backfire, either a car or a bike. Sounded to me like it was up at the north end. Maybe there was a spark and that’s what set off the propane.”

Backfire, or gunshot? My guess was that people assumed the man had died from the explosion or fire. His death by gunshot wasn’t yet commonly known.

The bartender was shaking his head. “No, propane would need something direct to ignite like that. Had to be a leak in the cabin. The guy that got killed, I’ll bet he stepped inside and fired up a cigarette. That would set off the propane.”

“I’ll know more when I see the report,” I said. Or maybe Walt Newman could tell me more, when I caught up with him.

“You should talk with the guy who lives in the cabin at the north end,” Francie said. “Chet something-or-other. What’s his name?”

“Olsen,” the guy with the ponytail said. “Chet Olsen. Yeah, his cabin is closest to that dock. That’s number twelve. If anybody saw anything before the boat went up, it would be him.”

“Thanks. Mind if I have a look around?”

“Suit yourself,” the bartender said. “I’ll give your card to Walt when he shows up.”

I left the bar and walked down past the marina office, then around to the rear of the building. A narrow gravel road led down a slope to a cluster of cottages and cabins, people who lived here at the marina. Narrow elevated walkways fanned out across the marsh and the shallows, leading to a series of wider docks that paralleled the river’s bank.

I counted fourteen boats tied up at slips, a mixture of sailboats, cabin cruisers, and catamarans. In a wide area edged by marsh, I saw several boats that were on racks, or dry-docked, evidently for repairs. Cans of paint and solvents were piled haphazardly near a shed, along with ropes, broken parts and sections of boat. An overflowing plastic trash can held rags that smelled of gasoline.

I walked north, past a boat launch ramp. There were several cabins of varying sizes, some better maintained than others. I came to the end of the marina, where cabin twelve sat, about forty feet from the walkway that led to the dock, which was some distance from the other docks, secluded from the rest of the marina by some trees. Here were two more boats, tied up at this dock where the wooden planks were charred and scorched. The boat that had burned was gone, hauled off by the authorities, or the owner. The two remaining boats were both cabin cruisers, both looking fairly new. One was called the Rosarita and the other, the Silverado. Both had a dusting of ash from the fire. I got out my cell phone, which had a camera, and snapped several pictures of the boats, making sure to get the names and hull identification numbers. I took photos of the damaged dock as well.

The Petaluma River shimmered in the afternoon sun. The river was wide here, with nothing on the other side except marsh. I spotted a great blue heron, standing like a sentinel in the reeds upstream. A snowy egret flew overhead and landed near the heron, then they moved slowly through the shallows, heads craned downward as they searched the water for food. One of them struck downward and came up with a fish wriggling in its beak. Then it swallowed the fish, stretching its neck upward as the meal went down its gullet.

I turned from the river and walked to the front door of cabin twelve. I knocked but there was no answer. I’d have to come back to see if I could talk with Chet Olsen about what he might have seen the night of the fire.

I retraced my steps to my car, feeling tired. No wonder, it had been a hell of a day. But I had a couple of stops, and phone calls, to make before returning home.

I looked through my phone’s contacts for my cousin, Donna Doyle. She’s a biologist—and a warden for the California Department of Fish and Wildlife. A few years ago, she’d been in the department’s Central Region, which included Monterey and its environs. After that, she transferred to the North Central Region, working from the Sacramento area. Last year, she’d transferred again, to the Bay–Delta Region, which included counties from Santa Cruz in the south to Sonoma and Napa counties in the north, all the densely populated counties of the greater Bay Area, and the extensive Delta at the confluence of the San Joaquin and Sacramento Rivers. The regional office was located in Napa, with a second office in Stockton, on the Delta.

She didn’t spend a lot of time in her office. She was usually out in the field. She answered after the third ring. “Agent Doyle.”

“Hi, Donna. This is Jeri. What are you up to?”

“Looking for a poacher, up by Cazadero. But I’m heading back to the office now.”

“You’re in Sonoma County? So am I.”

“Where?”

“Lakeville,” I said. “South of Petaluma.”

“I just passed Cotati heading toward Petaluma, cuz. Let’s get some coffee and talk.”

“Yes, I do need to talk.”

Donna picked up on something in my voice. “What’s going on? I heard your mom went out of town yesterday. Something about a family emergency.”

The family grapevine knew about my mother’s sudden departure from Monterey, but so far didn’t know the reason.

“Brian’s missing.” After Donna’s shocked exclamation, I filled her in on the story.

“Hell’s bells,” Donna said. “Listen, I’m almost to Petaluma. Meet me at the Petaluma Pie Company. I’m in the mood for something sweet.”