An Equal Opportunity Death (9 page)

“What was it that appealed to him?”

Skip sat, absently massaging his left forefinger. “I didn’t give that any thought. I don’t when someone is definite. It doesn’t make any difference then. I only try to figure it out when a person is unsure.”

“Like I was?”

“Well, Vejay, it was your first house. Of course, it was a hard decision. When a woman buys her first house she wants it to be perfect, and perfection is rare.”

“But you did try to narrow down what I wanted?”

He leaned forward with that worldly, amused look of his. “After I see a client go through two or three houses and still appear confused, I make an effort—you won’t be offended now if I reveal a trade secret, will you?”

I shook my head.

“I categorize them. There are the socially mobile people who want a house to stun their friends. They’re the ones who would choose a deck above indoor plumbing. Then there are the opposites, the convenience-oriented. But most of them prefer Santa Rosa. They’d only live along the river if they had to. Then they’d be so angry at their fate they’d demand their house make up for it.”

“And what was I?” I could tell from his expression that my question had created a dilemma for a courteous person. “It’s okay, Skip, I won’t be offended.”

Still, he looked hesitant. “You were, well, a recent divorcee.”

“How nineteen-thirties!”

“You said you wouldn’t be offended.”

“I’m not. Go on.”

“It’s not uncommon for people who have been through a divorce, particularly if it’s unpleasant, to want nothing to do with their former life. They want a house that’s entirely different, something that would offend their former spouses. They don’t really
want
anything; they just know what they
don’t
want.”

I smiled. It was true, but it had taken me a long time to realize it. “You found me that house.”

“Another secret?”

“Yes. Tell me.”

“I tricked you.”

“You what?”

“You would have been as happy in any of the houses you went through before. But with this one, I told you it was a house some people from the city had hated.”

I laughed and felt all the tension of the day bubbling out. “I remember that. They were not only city people, they were public relations people—what I had been. You knew that, didn’t you?”

“Probably. I don’t remember any more. You’re not angry, are you? Normally, I would never mention this.”

“No. You did the right thing. At that time I could have tramped through every house in town and still been dissatisfied. And my house is wonderful. But how come you categorized me so easily and you couldn’t figure out Frank?”

I saw that I had put him in an awkward position. This time I let it stand.

“As I said, I didn’t have to make any decision about Frank. He came, he saw the Place, and he wanted it. He was prepared to offer the owner more than the asking price. He wasn’t in a hurry about closing escrow. He told me he would consider whatever the owner wanted, just as long as it was aboveboard; he didn’t want to discover later that he’d been cheated.” Skip shrugged. “No one does, of course, but few are willing to admit to worrying about it. So Frank, in many ways, was a perfect client.”

“But what was it about Frank’s Place that attracted him?”

“I can’t be sure. Perhaps it was its history during Prohibition. That’s when the trap door was added. The owners dug a sort of well at the end of the little inlet under the trap door. When the Feds came, they would lower the liquor down into the well. When the coast was clear they’d hoist it up. Frank liked that. He even considered calling the Place the Speakeasy.”

“But he didn’t.”

“Rightly, I think. He decided that name was too cute.”

The rain was still slamming down. If anything it seemed to be falling harder. Skip hadn’t given me a new insight into Frank’s character, but I couldn’t think of anything else to ask about except the drugs. “Did Frank ever mention drugs?”

“Everyone mentions drugs.”

“Do you think Frank could have been dealing?”

“Vejay, I don’t know. Anyone could. You could. I don’t pry into people’s business. I just sell their houses.”

That, I thought, sounded very much like Patsy, telling me to butt out. Awkwardly, I said, “I guess houses are selling pretty well now.”

Skip followed the change of subject gladly. “There’s been a lot of turnover in the last year or so. Even considering that the sewer project is two years behind schedule, people are still buying. Businesses are selling. Sellers are enthusiastic about the two-year lease-options.” Skip was becoming enthusiastic.

“Two-year options?”

“It’s a great deal for a seller. Maybe you should consider it, Vejay. The way it works is that the buyer pays for option rights and makes the monthly lease payments for two years. Real estate prices in this area will skyrocket as soon as the sewer is in, so you can get a good price for the option. And if at the end of the two years the buyer can’t exercise the option, or chooses not to, you can lease it or sell it again. I’ve sold a couple of commercial pieces for the second time.”

“Why commercial?”

“You know about the ordinance that bans new businesses opening until the sewer is hooked up, don’t you?”

“Yes. Oh. So businessmen bought, assuming the sewer would be completed, and when it wasn’t, they had no business, right?”

“Right. Larger companies could have afforded the payment, but they preferred to let the property go and take the tax loss. It works with homes, too, though not so dramatically. It’s a little different.” He was assessing me.

“I’ll pass, Skip. I like my house too much to gamble with it.” And I didn’t care for the idea of luring someone else to lose their investment. It seemed discourteous. Apparently Skip saw it otherwise. I wondered how much he compartmentalized his values. Perhaps he just felt that adult people could take care of themselves.

It was still raining hard. The front window was completely steamed. I hated the thought of going back out, but I couldn’t find a reason to stay longer. I reached for the doorknob, then turned back to Skip Bollo. “Oh, by the way, I almost said hello to you and Madge at the restaurant on 101 yesterday morning.”

He didn’t say anything, but his startled expression that quickly shifted from fear to annoyance told me I was not about to get an explanation of that tête-à-tête. I said quickly, “Patsy seems very upset about Frank’s death.”

Ignoring my non sequitur, Skip picked up on the offered diversion. “They were friends. I used to see them around town. Sometimes in the state park. I … Look, Vejay, I do have some work. I …”

“Sure, Skip, I’ve kept you a long time.”

This time I did leave, wondering what it was that Skip had discussed with Madge that made him so uncomfortable.

What Skip Bollo had told me most about was myself. And of Frank? Either Skip knew nothing or was willing to admit nothing about drugs. But something about the Place was exactly what Frank wanted. What? I understood the bar in there before Frank had done a decent business. It was owned by an old couple and sold when they grew too decrepit to operate it. Still, Frank didn’t buy the name from them. He wasn’t buying good will. The location was pleasant, but for a bar, in town would have been a better location. Had Frank, as Skip suggested, fallen in love with the Place’s history—the Prohibition-era speakeasy with liquor stowed in the inlet beneath the trap door? If so, he hadn’t made any visible use of it in the operation of the Place. But perhaps the attraction was more than cosmetic. A trap door would be very useful to a drug dealer.

I raced the engine, forcing the heater higher. It occurred to me that I was spending a lot of time lately sitting in my truck with the engine idling. It was nine o’clock. I was pleased with my conclusion. It was so logical. I was ready to shift into reverse and drive on home when it struck me that logical though a drug motive might be, I had not one bit of evidence, a number of loose ends, and no suspects.

I raced the engine again.

What I needed was some proof that Frank had had marijuana in the Place. Had the police swept it out, looking for leaves, for stems, for seeds? Wescott hadn’t mentioned it, but he wouldn’t have. And Frank might not have had his contraband stash behind the bar or in a spot immediately noticeable. He would have had it hidden, some place near the trap door.

I tried to picture Frank with other customers. Had he ever behaved strangely, left the room and returned carrying a bag or box? I couldn’t recall anything odd. Still, it was the Place he wanted, so he had to be keeping the drugs there. Surely if I had thought of this, Wescott would have. That is, if he wasn’t concentrating only on me.

But short of breaking into the Place, there was nothing I could do.

What else had Skip told me? He’d seen Frank with Patsy Fernandez in town and in the state park. Patsy had certainly reacted strongly to my questions. She’d been upset last night at Rosa’s. It was one thing to run into Frank downtown. I’d done that myself, any number of times. But the state park was something else. The nearest entrance was halfway to Guerneville. It was a place you had to drive to, a place you went to for a reason, to commune with nature, or to meet without half the town knowing about it. It was, in a way, equivalent to the restaurant on Route 101.

And
that
was the main thing Skip had told me. Whatever he had discussed with Madge that morning was definitely something he didn’t want known.

I put the truck in reverse and backed into the street. Madge lived in one of the little houses on the hill behind town. I’d been there only once, and I wasn’t at all sure I could find it on a dark, rainy night. I turned left, circled through town, and looped back onto North Bank Road, past Madge’s antique shop. A dim light was visible through the steamy front window. With relief, I pulled up in front.

U
NLIKE
S
KIP’S SENSIBLY SITUATED
, carefully decorated office, Madge Oombs’s antique shop was on the river side of North Bank Road. And rather than being eight safe steps up, it slumped in the mud beside the road. The shop was old, its wooden frame denuded of any paint, and warped by years of exposure to rain. The front window was always in need of a wash; inside, the “antiques” were either stacked on top of tables or piled under them, thrust into corners or clumped wherever they could be squeezed in. A dust rag was an unknown commodity to Madge.

The few times I’d been there, Madge had been sitting on one or another of the pieces of merchandise, reading. In old boots, jeans, a plaid shirt, and, frequently, a bandana, she looked like she’d been cleaning the attic and had just stopped to take a rest.

Initially I’d wondered how Madge survived. But it took only one tourist season to find out. Tourists accepted her at face value—an unsophisticated woman, anxious to get rid of all this junk. Madge got prices I wouldn’t have believed.

I climbed down from the pickup. No doubt Madge was having a glass of wine, reading a novel, and waiting for the flood water to give her shop more atmosphere.

I pushed the door open. Inside, the front table that had held enough carnival glass to keep a Ringling, was empty. Madge was climbing the ladder to the attic, clutching a cardboard box. I watched her balance her sturdy, be-jeaned bottom against the side of the hatch door, and place the box on the attic floor.

Clomping down the stairs, she glared at the glass, china, brass, and crystal that crowded on tables and in cases, then sat down hard on the bottom rung.

“Vejay! I didn’t hear you come in. What are you doing out on a night like this? Sit. Look, there’s a whole clear table behind you. You can lay out if you want. I’ve just been carting junk up to the attic. Real pain in the ass. Every year I swear I’ll never do it again. When I see the flood coverage on television I ask myself what kind of lunatic is flooded out annually.”

Gray-streaked strands of hair escaped from the rubber band at the nape of her neck. As she spoke each breath batted the errant strands away from her mouth. Her face was smudged, her shirt and jeans streaked with dirt. She was not a sight which Skip Bollo would find attractive. It dawned on me that only one thing could have drawn Skip to their morning tête-à-tête.

“You’re selling the shop, aren’t you?” I blurted out.

She stared a moment, then shot a glance at the attic hole.

“No.”

It was a particularly unconvincing no.

“That’s what you were talking to Skip about yesterday morning at the truck stop, isn’t it?”

Again she looked toward the attic and back to me. “Vejay, what’s got into you? You must have been out in the weather too long. What are you walking in here making crazy accusations for?”

“Accusations” was an odd choice of word, I was thinking, when I heard a noise in the attic. I looked up in time to see Rosa’s face peer down. “Madge,” she called, “come on, now. We don’t have all night and you’ve got twice more than what you had last year. We’ll be doing well to get it all up here. Now don’t just sit there.”

Ignoring me, Madge began to load vases and wine glasses into a box. Rosa’s head disappeared.

“You are going to sell,” I said to Madge.

“Vejay,” she whispered, “you must be forgetting who you’re talking to. I’ve lived in Henderson all my life. I was born here. Rosa and I went to school here. I was married here, both times. I’ve owned this shop for thirty years.” She hoisted the box and climbed up the steps, handing it to Rosa overhead.

Rosa slid the box back from the entryway. Looking down, she called, “Is that you, Vejay?” She poked her head further through the hole. “Have you come to help Madge? That’s real nice. We can use all the help we can get. Maybe you can move Madge a little faster down there.”

“I’ll try, Rosa.” So far, I’d succeeded at
that.

I lifted a cardboard box onto the empty table and began stacking picture frames in it—wooden, brass, and a couple that looked suspiciously like aluminum. When Madge stepped down the ladder the box was nearly full. I gathered up four more small frames, put them in, and whispered to her, “I talked to Skip Bollo just now.”