An Equal Opportunity Death (16 page)

“I’m going to the library in Guerneville,” I said. “I wondered if you could take me.”

He was blond with pinkish skin. He looked decidedly uncomfortable. “What? The taxi service—”

“My truck is in the shop. It’s a long walk.”

“I see. But I don’t—”

“My name is Vejay Haskell. Sheriff Wescott had my truck towed there. I’m sure he would want to help me get it back. You can call and ask him.”

He stared, then nodded, and rolled up the window. The call took little more than a minute, after which he motioned me in the back, behind the wire mesh.

“I’m going to the library,” I repeated, “but you might as well drop me at the service station for my truck.”

He said nothing as he started the car, and nothing on the drive into Guerneville, and nothing as I thanked him and got out.

The truck, of course, wasn’t quite ready. Another half hour, the manager said. They could do the billing now, though.

Normally, I wouldn’t have put pen to check before seeing my truck, but today I went ahead, took possession of the numerous forms, and waited to have my check okayed. When the procedures were completed, the truck still needed another half an hour.

The sheriff’s car was outside. I waved and mouthed “not ready” as I passed. I walked down the main street, stopping at the bakery for a donut. The rain-free day had brought out everyone in town. The sidewalks were crowded and people pushed their way in and out of every shop.

The library was behind the main part of town, away from the river. The book-drop was full; there was no one at the check-out counter.

The librarian had copies of the
San Francisco Chronicle
for the last three months and issues of the local papers dating back one year. Earlier than that, I would have to do my research on microfilm.

I started with the local paper on the premise that the coverage of the theft would be big news here, be an item of interest in Santa Rosa, and barely merit mention in the San Francisco paper.

An hour later I realized that my assessment had been only partly right. The local paper was indeed thorough—to the point of repetitiveness—so that it took me nearly an entire hour to read its coverage, only to discover that after the first week no new facts were reported. But I dared not skip over it. The
Chronicle,
however, had given this out-of-town theft greater space than I had foreseen because the owner of the Chinese plates was a Martin Walucyk, an art collector and part-time professor who lived mainly in San Francisco. Together the papers explained that Walucyk had purchased a house in Henderson three years ago as a summer and weekend retreat. As a collector he sometimes brought valuable items there, and therefore had a temperature/humidity-controlled case in the house, where he kept the Chinese plates. Along with the plates, the usual range of electrical equipment had been taken in the burglary. The sheriff had no clues as to the identity of the culprits, but said that burglaries of empty dwellings had been a problem throughout the Russian River area. What neither paper contained was a distinguishable picture of the plates to tell me whether mine had been one of them.

To discover that, I would need to see Walucyk.

And he, of course, would be in San Francisco. I was here at the library; my truck was four blocks away; and the sheriff’s deputy sat outside. I could hardly have a deputy tail me to Walucyk’s house.

I couldn’t creep through Guerneville with the ease which I’d covered Henderson last night. Certainly not at midday.

I glanced out the window. The sheriff’s car was across the street.

The library did have a back door behind the check-out counter, a private door for the staff. I walked over to the counter and looked in its direction.

“Can I help you?” the librarian asked. She was about my age. She looked familiar, as most people in this area did. I’d taken a class with one, chatted with another in the market, or failing that, read their meter.

The library was empty now but for the second librarian in the back room. I said to the woman at the desk. “I need to ask you a big favor. Not money,” I added quickly.

She smiled warily.

“My truck’s at the garage. I feel truly lousy. I just can’t face the walk across town. I know it’s asking a lot, I mean we hardly know each other—weren’t you in the film class at the college last year?”

“Right. I thought I knew you.”

“Anyway, I wondered if you could drive me to my truck. I’d really appreciate it.”

She hesitated, looking around at the empty room. “I guess so. We’re not exactly crowded today. Georgia can handle any rush in the next five minutes. Come on, my car’s out back.”

I followed her through the office, out the rear door, and into an ancient blue Pontiac. From there it was easy to direct her out the right-hand exit, the one farthest from the deputy. I thought he glanced at the car, but if so she was between him and me. And in any case he didn’t move. At the garage, I thanked her, hopped out, collected the keys for my truck, and drove off.

When I was buying the truck, my personal statement of country life, I had eyed a bright red model. The friend I took with me laughed. “A little red wagon?” he asked. Reluctantly, I agreed that it was a bit much, and in reaction bought the plainest one in the lot, the brown. But now as I drove through town, garnering no notice at all, I silently thanked him. Maybe when this was all over I’d have him over to dinner. And the woman from the library. And all the people in Henderson I’d offended. I’d have to rent a hall.

I made it to Route 101 in reasonable time. North Bank Road was crowded. I didn’t want to speed, but on 101 I felt safe. Here I was no longer Vejay Haskell of Henderson, but an anonymous Californian driving along one of the main north-south freeways.

I stopped looking in the rear-view mirror and considered how I would approach Walucyk.

The
Chronicle
referred to his address only as “in Pacific Heights,” an old moneyed section of San Francisco. But our local paper, less sophisticated, or less concerned about the privacy of city folk, had given it out, street and number. Both papers carried a description of the plates, a set of ten antique bronze religious plates, decreasing in size from forty inches in diameter to five (mine, presumably). Etched into each one was an ancient religious symbol. They were valued at three hundred thousand dollars. A very lucky find for Frank.

Or as it turned out, very unlucky.

A four-color article in the
Chronicle,
which originally ran during the time Walucyk bought the plates (and was reprinted after the burglary news thinned), reviewed Walucyk’s history as a collector, listing several coups which had astounded fellow art lovers. In fact, his discovery and purchase of the Chinese bronze plates aroused jealousy as far away as England. The report quoted a Professor Everson of Leeds University in England as saying his school had eyed the plates soon after China had been reopened to the West, but Walucyk had beaten them to it. Everson had made Walucyk an offer for the plates (amount unspecified in the article) and was rejected.

As I headed across the Golden Gate Bridge, I wondered if Frank could have been on the payroll of this Professor Everson. It was farfetched. But then Frank’s death still seemed unreal.

I stopped at the toll gate. The sky was overcast, but compared to the Russian River area, it was almost bright. I drove past the sailboats in the marina and turned right, up into Pacific Heights, hoping Walucyk would be home.

When I found his house, a beautiful plum-accented blue and beige Victorian, a Mercedes was pulling out of the driveway.

O
N THE DRIVE OVER
to the city I had considered how to approach Walucyk. A man who had recently lost his prized Chinese plates might not be anxious to invite a strange woman into his house to view his remaining collection. What would reassure him? Getting inside someone’s house had never been a problem for me. When I worked in the city my clients were always anxious for my help. In Henderson I simply showed my PG&E identification.

After rejecting several possibilities, I recalled a friend, a freelance writer who did articles “on spec.” She’d phone and say “I’m writing an article on spec for
West Coast
magazine …” “On spec,” she explained, meant not requested by the magazine. But the prospective interviewee never noted the “on spec,” only the
West Coast
magazine. Secondly, she added, interviews were much easier to get than one might think. People liked to talk about their work; they loved to talk about themselves; and they adored the idea that others were waiting to read about their favorite subject.

I’d see.

I jumped out of the truck and ran to the Mercedes. Tapping on the driver’s window, I said, “Mr. Walucyk?”

The man, middle-aged, small, and almost completely bald, rolled the window down half an inch. “Yes?”

“Are you Martin Walucyk?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Merle Dubrow. I tried to call you. I’m writing an article on spec for
West Coast
magazine about Asian art collections and art collectors. I’ll only be in San Francisco today. I would really like to talk to you.”

He hesitated, then nodded, closed the window, and pulled the Mercedes back up the driveway.

The house was square, large, three stories. The doorway faced the drive. Approaching the hulking dwelling, Walucyk looked even smaller. He was perhaps five feet four. As with many bald men he looked as if his head had been spun violently and all his features resettled together by centrifugal force, leaving large areas of untenanted skin. His pate had a muted shine. His suit was brown, the turtleneck under it camel. It looked expensive, befitting the owner of the house and the Mercedes.

Using two keys Walucyk opened the door, then, motioning for me to wait, he adjusted several switches on the wall.

It seemed ridiculous to invest in such security if he had the habit of inviting people in off the street.

I followed him into the living room, a large room created by merging the front and rear parlors. It was darkly panelled, a room that no amount of sunshine could brighten. The floors were covered with oriental carpets; the sofas, loveseats, and chairs reminded me of the furnishings of minor European palaces open to the public. These were not pieces that invited one to sit down.

Against each of the walls were lighted cases, each holding display collections. For a moment I forgot my purpose as I stared at the elaborate and delicate ivory carving of a small hillside village. The whole work was no more than a foot high. “Amazing,” I said.

“It’s thirteenth-century Japanese. From Hokkaido. It does look amazing even to those who know nothing of Asian carvings. But experts have seen and agreed that the craftsmanship was exceptionally subtle for so early a period.”

I nodded, not knowing what to say.

But there was no need for response. Walucyk motioned me to another display case. In it were six rice paper fans edged with gold. “These, you may not realize, are from the Tang Dynasty in China. From the court, of course. No one has seen anything like it here since the Boxer Rebellion. A few amateurs tried to get Chinese artifacts when the country reopened, but all they got was junk. One of those men, a dealer,”—he emitted the word rather like a noxious gas—“even saw these and passed them by. Looking for something flashier, no doubt. I spotted them instantly, and if I do say so, got an exceptional deal.”

I nodded again.

“Over here are my smallest carvings. Even the museums have some of these netsukes. Japanese work has been easier to come by. Of course, the museums are inclined to the less subtle. But their budgets are limited.”

And their visitors peasants, I was tempted to say. For such a little man, Walucyk was certainly one big pain in the ass.

In the corner was an empty display case. I walked toward it. “Was this where you kept the Chinese dishes?” That would be a reasonable question from a writer.

“Devotional plates,” he corrected.

“Devotional plates.”

“But that is what you’ve come to discuss, isn’t it? Do you realize that that particular set is nearly five hundred years old. Before the present revolution those plates were kept in places of honor in the temple and used as vessels during sacred ceremonies to contact ancestors.”

“They were used outside, exposed to the atmosphere?” I said, amazed.

Had Walucyk been taller he would have looked down his nose at me. “The city was in the mountains. The air was dry, the area arid. Perfect conditions for preservation. Many people don’t realize that much of China is mountainous and dry. Even in our own country many people fail to understand why parchments are preserved better in Arizona than New Hampshire.”

“Could you describe the plates?” I said, anxious to get on with it.

He looked surprised. “Yes, I suppose so. They are a set of ten, which in itself is extraordinary. The normal religious set would be nine. With these, the tenth was made for good luck.”

“Sort of ‘one to grow on’?” I was sorry as soon as I said it.

Walucyk ignored my comment. “Each plate has the temple insignia in the center. The set, as you know, is bronze, and also,” he said, gazing at me almost in supplication, “as you know, oxidizes rapidly without proper care.”

“Do you have a picture of them?”

“A picture? Why do you want to see that?”

“I may want to illustrate my article,” I said.

Walucyk tensed. “Very well. The photographic work is over here.” He removed a portfolio of twelve-by-fourteen photographs from a cabinet and laid it on a table, turning plastic-enclosed pages of photos until he came to one showing the ten plates. The photo was in color. The plates glistened green-gold in the light. The design so muted on my own little dish showed up strong and clear here. And it looked the same. I was struck by the beauty of the plates in their original condition. I hoped the other nine had fared better than mine.

“Is the design unusual?”

He looked surprised and annoyed.

“I mean, would this be the only set of plates with this design?”

“Of course. It is the temple insignia.”