Crazybone (14 page)

I opened the letter. The same careful writing filled both sides. The salutation was formal and the body of it read:

I’m writing this letter because my mom is watching the phone and she took away my pc so I can’t e-mail you. She heard me making plans to meet you at the riding academy and locked me in my room. I don’t know what else to do. I have a stamp and I’ll try to sneak out and put this in our mailbox. I’ll have to put up the red flag so the mailman will take it but maybe Mom won’t notice.

We’re going away. Running away, I guess. To Aunt Karen’s first but I don’t think we’ll stay there very long. I don’t know where we’ll go after that. Mom won’t tell me. Aunt Karen lives in Gualala. She sent me a birthday card a few days ago and I still have the envelope. I’ll put her address label in here so you’ll know where to find us.

I don’t want to go. I tried to talk Mom into staying but she wouldn’t listen. She’s so scared she’s acting crazy. She won’t tell me why. The only thing she said was “If he finds me he’ll kill me.” I said who would. She said “Somebody I knew a long time ago, before you were born.” She wouldn’t tell me his name or where she knew him or why he wants to kill her.

I’m scared too. That’s why I’m writing this letter to you. You’re the only person I know who can help us. Mom doesn’t think so but I do.

Please help us if you get this letter. Something bad is going to happen, I know it. I’ve already lost my dad, I don’t want to lose my mom too.

It was signed “Sincerely, Emily Hunter.”

Tightness in my throat and a bitter taste in my mouth when I finished reading it. You’d have to be a pretty hard case not to be moved by a letter like this.

Back in the office I said to Tamara, “You can quit the Karen hunt. I just found out who she is and where she lives.”

“No lie? How?”

“This came in the mail.”

“Some kid,” Tamara said when she finished reading the letter. “Sure puts a lot of faith in you.”

“Not too much, I hope.”

“You be going to Gualala?”

“Have to. Even if they’re not there I might be able to get something out of Karen Meineke. I can make it to Gualala by one-thirty or so. Not much more than a three-hour drive.”

“Anything you want me to do?”

“One thing. If you’re willing. Drive down to Greenwood and check out the Hunters’ property. If nobody’s there, look in the garage and see if Mrs. Hunter’s Audi is still inside.”

“Sure. Why wouldn’t I be willing? More field work I get to do, the better I like it.”

“Well...”

She gave me a slow, lopsided grin. “You worried about a black face getting too much attention down there?”

“Not that. You. I don’t want you to get in trouble.”

“Me? Trouble? Hey, man, I was born in Redwood City, remember? I knows all about how to deal wif rich white folks in dey fine homes.” Her voice had risen to a shrill, grating parody of African-American speech. “Lawdy, I’se been comin’ over cheer to do foh Miz Hunter and other folks foh a long time now. Yassuh, nosuh, I wasn’t doin’ nothin’ wrong, I sho’ wasn’t.”

“I hate it when you do Butterfly McQueen.”

“Not half as much as I hate black stereotypes.”

“All right. Just don’t lay it on too thick.”

“You leave that to me.”

“If Mrs. Hunter is home, or anybody else is there, make up an excuse and get away as quickly as you can. Don’t tell anybody you work for me unless you have to.”

“Boss,” Tamara said, “quit fussin’ and get movin’. I’m a big girl now. And I already have a daddy.”

I was on Highway I between Jenner and Fort Bragg, the narrow, winding stretch that hugs the high cliffsides and gives height-fearing people like me sweaty palms, when the car phone buzzed. I negotiated another tight curve before I answered it.

“I’m down here in White Folks Heaven,” Tamara said. “On my way out and back to the real world.”

“No trouble?”

“Few looks, that’s all. You know what I’m saying?”

“Yeah. What’d you find out?”

“Nobody home at the Hunters’, alarm system still on, big Audi sitting in the garage.”

“Look like anyone’s been there since yesterday?”

“Uh-uh. Got that deserted feel.”

“Okay. Thanks, Tamara.”

“What else you got for me to do?”

“Nothing on the Hunter ease until I see what I can find out in Gualala. When you get back to the office, go ahead with the Pac Bell search—”

“Way ahead of you there. I e-mailed my man before I left and he already got back to me.” She was a true child of the new age; she carried a laptop with her everywhere she went — to bed and the bathroom, for all I knew — and checked her messages with compulsive regularity. “Might just be your mother-in-law’s right about Mr. Todd. Be something funny goin’ on anyway.”

“How so?”

“Subscriber was Inco of California. Impressive, right? Big outfit of some kind. But the thing is, they had the number exactly one month. September first to October first.”

“Cancelled by them or Pac Bell?”

“Them. Paid the setup charge in advance, paid the one month’s bill and cancelled at the same time. Not much of a bill, either — few dollars over minimum, all on toll calls to Marin.”

“Who opened the account and signed Inco’s check?”

“Man named John Klinghurst. Mean anything?”

“Not to me.”

“Well, Mr. John Klinghurst has himself another phone number listed in his own name. Same billing address as Inco’s — twenty-six-eleven Kirkham. That number’s still in service.”

“Inner Sunset. Residential area.”

“Right. All of this say to you what it does to me?”

“Scam of some kind.”

“With just one target. Mr. Archie Todd.”

“When you get back to the office,” I said, “see what you can find out about this John Klinghurst. Call my mother-in-law, ask her if she knows him or has heard the name. And check with Dunbar Asset Management. Todd’s financial consultants. If they won’t give you any information about his account, talk to his lawyer, Evan Patterson. See what he knows about Todd’s financial situation.”

“Will do,” Tamara said.

We rang off. By then I was through the worst of the cliff-hugging turns and on my way past the old Russian stronghold at Fort Ross. A phrase popped into my head: Trouble ahead, trouble behind, and me somewhere in the middle. I smiled a little, wryly. You could use those words, pretty much verbatim, as an epitaph for a private eye.

Gualala is one of several villages strung along the Pacific rim of Sonoma and Mendocino counties, between Fort Ross and Port Bragg. Some people think the name is Native American, but in fact it’s a Spanish phoenetic rendering of Valhalla, the mythological home of heroes fallen in battle. Timber interests working the long spine of mountains to the east built a logging camp there in the 1850’s — one of the “doghole ports” used as shipping points for schooners carrying redwood to San Francisco Bay. For over a hundred years much of the Bay Area’s lumber supply came from the area.

Its modern evolution began in the early 1960s, when logging went into a big decline. Retirees and wealthy individuals looking for second homes and private retreats began to move in, drawn by some of the most ruggedly unspoiled coastline in the state. Developers, naturally, weren’t far behind. Under close watch by the Coastal Commission, they built a ten-mile-long stretch of environmentally friendly homes on large parcels called Sea Ranch; and farther north, oceanfront property stretching halfway to Point Arena was gobbled up at increasingly higher prices. Gualala, smack in the middle and loaded with old-fashioned seaside charm, flourished for that reason, and because its isolation, generally temperate weather (the area is known as the “Banana Coast”), and scenic attractions made it desirable to artists, writers, and other urban dropouts.

A little of the old charm has been diluted by such growth byproducts as minimalls and motels, but for the most part it’s still a down-home place. It may not be quite as unspoiled as a few of its “doghole” neighbors, but on the other hand it hasn’t gone the way of Mendocino, the best known of the coastal towns fifty miles to the north, and become a cloyingly quaint, tricked-up tourist trap.

It was a quarter of two when I crossed the long bridge spanning the mouth of the Gualala River and entered the town. The weather up here was mostly clear and sunny, but there was a fog bank out at the horizon line and a gusty wind that threatened to drive it inshore before dark. The Banana Coast’s mean temperature may be higher than San Francisco’s, but it gets just as many year-round smothers of fog.

I pulled into the lot next to the old Gualala Hotel and went in there to ask directions to Port Creek Road. It was at the north end of the village, leading up into the hills. I found it all right, climbed past a school and through a long wooded section. The number 2410 was painted on one of four mailboxes at the foot of a private access lane. The last of the four houses back in there, set on a piece of high ground, was the one I wanted.

It was a small place that had seen better days, built of redwood logs and shakes, with a front deck that looked as though a good wind might knock it down into kindling. Just as ramshackle were an empty carport, a lean-to stuffed with firewood, and a shedlike structure in the trees behind the house. I’d seen woodsmoke coming from the chimneys of two of the other houses; there was none here. Nobody home, evidently.

I left my car on the turnaround where the lane ended and walked up to number 2410. The stairs felt spongy under my feet as I climbed onto the deck. The boards up there were in such bad shape that my weight on them brought creaks and fluttery movement from an ancient chain-supported porch swing. Some place. Aunt Karen wasn’t anywhere near as well off as the Hunters. But then, she might be the kind of artist who didn’t give a damn about material rewards.

There was no bell so I banged on the door. All that got me was more creaking from the rusty swing. Well? I turned to glance along the lane. The thick growth of pine and fir on the Port Creek Road side cut off any view of the neighboring houses. I faced the door again. Knocked once more, listened, didn’t hear anything, and tried the knob. I expected it to be locked; the fact that it wasn’t stirred me. I hesitated with my hand on the knob. Better not, I thought, somebody could show up any minute.

Emily, I thought. And opened the door and leaned inside.

Dark in there — curtains open but not much natural light coming through the windows. A faint, pulsing red showed in the fireplace: the last dying embers of a recent fire whose warmth still lingered. I glanced back at the empty lane another time, then went in all the way, leaving the door open so it would be easier to hear the sound of an approaching car.

When my eyes adjusted I could see that the room was maybe twenty feet square. Not much furniture, rag rugs on a bare hardwood floor, a breakfast bar and a pocket-size kitchen to my left. Pieces of stained glass, mounted and suspended from the ceiling, served as wall decoration on both sides of the fireplace. I couldn’t tell much about them in the gloom and I wouldn’t have been able to judge their quality anyway.

A narrow hallway bisected the wall opposite, next to the kitchen; I went that way, taking in the room. Karen Meineke was not much of a housekeeper. Papers, unemptied ashtrays, unclean dishes, other items littered most surfaces. Woodsmoke, cigarette smoke, fried foods, dust and dampness created a heavy, hanging smell that encouraged mouth breathing. I walked along the hall. A right-angle extension led to one bedroom; another, larger bedroom opened up ahead. The larger one had an unmade brass-frame bed, piles of dirty clothes, and not much else. I backed up and moved into the second bedroom.

Things were neater in there. The bed had been made, the floor was free of personal droppings. The closet door stood open; inside I could see a closed suitcase. The case was small, powder blue, and looked both new and expensive. I squatted and worked the catches, it wasn’t locked.

Kid’s clothing. Little girl’s.

All right, good, I thought as I straightened up. Emily must be staying here, at least. Off somewhere now with Aunt Karen — back eventually.

I searched the closet, the bureau; even got down on all fours and squinted under the bed. Emily’s suitcase was the only one, and there was no sign of anything that might belong to her mother. I returned to the other bedroom. Nothing of hers there, either. All the clothing belonged to a woman much larger and far less fashion conscious than Sheila Hunter — jeans, bargain-rack blouses, wool shirts, bulky knit sweaters. That told me something else: Karen Meineke lived here alone. The only item of masculine apparel in the room was a pair of heavy wool socks, of the type that Kerry wore during the winter.

I thought I heard something outside, hurried to the front door for a look. Imagination; the access lane was as deserted as before. Still time to comb through the rest of the place.

Two items of interest turned up in the living room. The first, in the drawer of a table next to an armchair, I didn’t like at all — a snub-nosed Smith & Wesson .38, all its chambers full. Loaded gun just lying around like that, with a ten-year-old in the house. Stupid and irresponsible. I stood looking at it for a few seconds. Then I emptied the cylinder, dumped the cartridges into a paper sack of garbage under the kitchen sink, and carried the piece into Karen Meineke’s bedroom and hid it on the top shelf of the closet under a jumble of caps and scarves. Let her go hunting for it and wonder how it got there, empty, when she found it.

The second interesting item I found on a shelf in a storage closet — a photograph album with cracked plastic covers. About two-thirds of it was filled, mostly with candid color snapshots. There were half a dozen professional photos, three posed portraits and three wedding pictures. Two of the portraits, judging from the head-and-shoulders poses and the subjects’ age and clothing, were high school graduation photos. The young woman in one was unmistakably Sheila Hunter, even though her eyebrows were thicker and her hair dark brown and shag cut. The young woman in the other had a round face, a pouty mouth, the same color hair worn longer. Karen Meineke. The resemblance between her and Sheila Hunter was plain enough, and the third portrait pretty much confirmed the fact that they were sisters. It was of the pair of them, their shoulders touching, their heads turned slightly so that they were smiling at each other. The resemblance was even stronger in that one.