Looking for Yesterday (17 page)

“Her form of therapy, I guess. And you?”

“I’m doing okay. I thought I’d made sense of things, and then I found these.”

He handed me a sheaf of newspaper clippings and letters handwritten on heavy bond paper.

“You recognize the handwriting?” I asked.

“No.”

“Okay, let me read them.” I led him into the living room, where four easy chairs overlooked the sea. “You relax—the bar’s over there, the kitchen’s through the door. Help yourself to whatever pleases you.”

Rob helped himself to three fingers of Ricky’s best single malt scotch and settled down in the chair beside me as I read.

“Not much to go on,” Rob said.

“I don’t know; Benbow’s an unusual name. I’ll have one of my employees start a trace on Valerie. The dates—August second, ninth, and then the thirtieth—make me wonder if there weren’t more in between. This mention of sheepherding—that also interests me.”

“I don’t think Caro knew anything about sheep. Of course, I could be wrong.”

I thought of the private investigator Edna Sheep; maybe her last name was why Caro had hired her before turning to Ham Roth. Sheep versus pigs. The idea was ridiculous. But sheep—there was something about them.…

“Of course,” I said, “Jethro Weatherford kept sheep.”

“Who?”

“Doesn’t matter right now.” I stood. “I need to do some research. May I keep these letters?”

Rob stood too. “Certainly. And now I’ve got to get back to the office. I’ve been neglecting my work so much that I’m afraid they’ll boot me out of the firm. Call me when you have something.”

I walked him out, then went back to the living room and looked at the laptop Rae had loaned me.

Sheep. What the hell could sheepherding have to do with all of this?

4:07 p.m.

Apparently sheepherding had a lot to do with it, according to the Internet.

The Waldens had threatened Jethro Weatherford with a lawsuit over letting his sheep stray onto their land.

Jethro had responded, saying they’d better not set foot on his property.

Then the boundary dispute had started: the Waldens had claimed that a corner of Jethro’s ranch actually belonged to them. A court had ruled otherwise. Over the next six months, four of Jethro’s sheep had been brutally killed.

The Waldens had denied they’d had anything to do with the killings, but a nearby ranch hand taking a shortcut across Jethro’s place said he’d seen an employee of Dave and Kayla’s in the pasture around the times the animals had been slaughtered.

The Waldens, it seemed, were good at denial.

The phone rang and I let the call go to the machine, but when I heard Jim McCullough’s voice I picked up.

The fireman said, “The suspect you mentioned who might’ve done your house fire, Daniel Winters, cleared out of his apartment yesterday afternoon. Was picked up on a DUI north of Sacramento. For once the Highway Patrol paid attention to our BOLOs.”

“Did he confess?”

“No. Lawyered up with Iron Mike Falvey, but I doubt Mike’ll be representing him much longer. He doesn’t like clients who don’t follow orders. Problem is, Winters has an alibi for the time of the arson: he stopped by at Capitol Casino in Sacramento, drank too much and made an ass of himself. Quite a few employees and patrons can identify him.”

“Maybe distancing himself from another thug he’d hired to set the fire?”

“Possibly. But to be frank, I don’t see him for the job. When his first thug failed, I doubt he tried another.”

I sighed. “So he won’t be charged for anything except drunk driving.”

“Unfortunately, it’s not against the law to be vicious and stupid.”

After I ended the call, I read the Valerie letters again. With Winters out of the picture, it was all beginning to make sense. I strongly suspected who had set my home on fire, and I was determined to nail the bastard.

5:17 p.m.

None of my more experienced operatives were available: Craig and Adah were still down with the flu; Julia didn’t answer her home or cell phone; Derek had gone to Las Vegas for the weekend; Patrick and Thelia weren’t reachable either.

I knew that Mick didn’t want to work outside the office any more, but he was my last hope. He picked up right away when I called him.

“Are you free? I need a ride and backup.”

“For what?”

“I think I’ve figured this case out. But I need…well, you’ll see.”

“Does this involve me getting shot at, stabbed, or bludgeoned?”

“Not if I can help it. Do you happen to have a shovel?”

“A
shovel
? You don’t need a shovel to stuff plants into containers on a balcony in this building.”

“Never mind. I’ll see if there’s one here. Pick me up as soon as you can.”

“Shar—”

I broke the connection and went to look for a shovel, found a large one in the gardening shed. Then I changed into my new heavy-duty boots and waited for Mick.

5:55 p.m.

Mick’s car was an old blue Porsche that he’d bought for fifty cents from his father. In California, license plates remain with the vehicle unless the new owner decides to change them; the Porsche’s read
COBWEBS
, the name Mick himself had suggested after Ricky’s early big hit—“Cobwebs in the Attic of My Mind.” The car required a lot of maintenance, and the plates attracted stares, but I supposed Mick kept it out of sentiment. Mainly he rode his Harley or drove Alison’s car.

He got out and, when he saw the shovel, opened the trunk. I tossed it inside.

“Where’re we going?” he asked.

“The Alexander Valley.”

“You look really pissed about something. What’s going on?”

“Not now. I have to think.”

Traffic was light on the bridge—not surprising for a murky, dark evening. Even so, some tourists were out, walking across the span in rain slickers and heavy sweatshirts. Why, I wondered, did anyone come to San Francisco in January? Reduced airfares and lodging rates, I supposed. I’d have bet many of them returned home complaining that they didn’t see why everybody raved about the city, but those who did rave had seen it on a clear, balmy day when even the grumpiest citizen smiled.

Traffic slowed at the Novato Narrows, where three lanes became two for a ten-mile stretch between Novato and Petaluma; traffic always backed up there and came to stop after stop, no matter what the time of day or night. There were no exits, except for the county landfill.

I’d been silent the whole ride, going over the facts, looking for any false assumptions. No, it was solid.

Occasionally Mick glanced at me, but he didn’t speak either.

6:58 p.m.

We exited the freeway on Lytton Springs Road and drove through dark countryside into the Alexander Valley. Lights from the vineyard homes and wineries were misted; Mick turned on the car’s fog lamps, but they didn’t help much and he slowed to well below the speed limit.

I decided to test my theory on Mick. I said, “Somebody fatally injured Caro and stole papers that were incriminating to him or her. Somebody killed Jethro Weatherford. Somebody burned my house down in an attempt to kill me. What could be so valuable as to motivate crimes like that?”

“Money.”

I shook my head, stared out the window at the dark hills. “That’s part of it, but…”

“But what?”

“What’s more valuable and permanent than anything else you can possess?”

“Gold?”

“Good answer. But there’s something else. And far more precious than a commodity that you store in a bank vault and never visit.”

“Children?”

“Another good answer. But think again.”

“Land.”

“How about land that conceals a secret?”

“Okay. But what…?”

“If I’m right, you’ll soon find out. First place we’re going is Hewette Vineyards, which supplies the Waldens’ grapes. I think the old man who owns it knows more about them than he admitted to me.”

7:44 p.m.

Russ Hewette looked surprised when he opened his door to us. There was a pause before he said, “Ms. McCone, whatever are you doing here at this hour?”

“May we come in?”

He frowned, then motioned us through the door and into a parlor.

I said, “This is my nephew, Mick Savage.”

They shook hands.

“I’m afraid I haven’t been candid with you,” I added, and extended one of my cards. “I need to ask you more about the Waldens.”

He studied it, squinting his pale eyes. “I thought you were a somewhat estranged friend of theirs.”

“I’m sorry—it was a subterfuge, to get you to talk about them.”

“I don’t appreciate that.”

“I’m sure you don’t. Can we start over?”

He hesitated, not inviting us to sit down.

“Please, Mr. Hewette. This is important. Two people have already died—maybe more—because of them.”

His face tightened, reflecting his conflicting emotions. “You lied to me before. How do I know you aren’t now?”

“You don’t. But if you wish, you can phone Inspector Devlin Fast at the San Francisco PD. He’ll inform you about the circumstances of the deaths of Caro Warrick and Jake Green.”

“Who’re they?”

“They were both connected to the Waldens.”

He rubbed his chin. “No, I guess I don’t need to call any cop.”

He sat down in an old lounge chair that looked as if he spent most of his time in it, and motioned Mick and me toward a sofa.

I said, “Tell me about Jethro Weatherford’s sheep being killed.”

“Well, it was a while ago. Coyotes, most people said; their natural habitat’s being destroyed with all these new people building in the hills, so they search for food in places they normally wouldn’t.”

“Jethro thought the Waldens were behind it because he wouldn’t sell him that corner of his land.”

“Yeah, but Jethro bought more sheep, and so far nothing’s happened to them.”

“But something happened to Jethro.”

A pause. “Well, that’s a fact, isn’t it?”

“Kayla Walden,” I went on. “You told me you haven’t seen her up close in two or three years.”

“That’s correct. Only from a distance, and not often.”

“But you’ve seen Dave.”

“Why, sure. In the fields, as I told you before.”

“Have you heard of anything unusual or different about Kayla since you last had contact with her?”

He frowned, and after a moment said, “Well, she’s apparently calmed down a lot.”

“How so?”

“The first few years, she was kind of wild. She drank a lot and sometimes she’d start public arguments with Dave in Geyserville.”

“You witnessed these?”

“Two of them. Heard about a few more.”

“What did they argue about?”

“
She
argued; he just looked embarrassed and resigned. Mostly it was about the usual—he’d spent too much at the hardware store, when she couldn’t afford to get her hair cut. You know. One time I came upon them in their car, pulled off the road, practically in the ditch. She was yelling that she’d kill him and that woman if he didn’t end it. Sounded to me as if Dave was getting something on the side. Friend of mine heard her screaming about killing herself after Dave had dragged her out of Kelso’s Bar. After that I think that Dave must’ve gotten her into therapy or even an institution, because all the ruckus stopped—and it’s been quiet ever since.”

I pictured the attractive, pleasant Kayla I’d met at the winery. No way would she carry on like that.

“Mr. Hewette, is there any possible reason for you to think that the woman over there not might be Kayla Walden?”

“Of course she’s Kayla. Same hair, same fondness for capes.”

I remembered Amelia Bettencourt’s claims that she was being followed by someone in a black cape. “So nothing’s changed in the years the Waldens have lived next door to you?”

He considered for a moment. “Well…her bread.”

“Her bread?”

“The bread she used to deliver every morning. She’d bring it to the door and knock, sometimes come in and have a slice with me. Now she just sends a loaf with one of the winery workers. You’re going to think this is an old man’s fancy, but it’s not the same. The bread she used to bring me had a certain lightness, a quality…Oh, I can’t describe it.”

Mick said, “Like Grandma’s. No one’s home-baked bread is the same as anybody else’s.”

“Right,” Hewette said. “Kayla’s bread changed.”

“When?” I asked.

“Maybe two, two and a half years ago.”

Who would think that a case could turn on such a point as bread hot from the oven?

8:10 p.m.

We were standing in the grove of eucalyptus on Jethro Weatherford’s property, my flashlight shining on ground littered with leaves and seedpods. It was even darker here than on the road, and the mentholated odor of the trees clogged my nostrils. The rustle of a few night birds was the only sound except for our breathing, and a chill wind blew the fog down from the coastal hills.

“Where do I dig?” Mick asked.

“Here, at the corner of the property.”

He went at it, working steadily, muscles flexing, as I held the flashlight on the spot. It was a long time before the shovel clanged on metal and he stopped. “I think I’ve hit that drainage pipe.”