Muller, Marcia - [11] Trophies and Dead Things(v1.0)(html) (46 page)

"Why is that?"

She didn't say anything at first,
merely studied her fingernails, which were filed nearly to the quick.
Finally she shrugged. "There's nothing but pain in the world. My
husband and I built ourselves a safe cocoon here on the ranch. Now that
he's gone I value it all the more."

I wondered what had happened to
hurt them so badly, but was afraid she would close up if I asked. "I
see. Well, the reason I'm here is that shortly before he died, Perry
Hilderly made a will leaving you a fourth of his estate—about a quarter
of a million dollars."

She looked up, violet eyes
widening. "Why?"

"I don't know. Can you tell me?"
 

She shook her head.

"Mrs. Ross, do you know Thomas Y.
Grant?"

"Who? No—name's not familiar."

"What about Jess Goodhue?"

"No."

"Jenny Ruhl?"

She took her feet off the desk
and grasped the arms of the chair, as if to keep from jumping up.
"Jenny . . . Jenny's been dead for years."

"Yes, but her daughter's
alive—Jess Goodhue."

"I remember she had a baby,
Jessica, Where did she get that last name?"

"It's adoptive. Jess Goodhue is
another beneficiary of Hilderly's will, as is Tom Grant. Goodhue
thinks Hilderly may have been her father."

A peculiar smile came to Ross's
lips—twisted, bitter. "I can assure you he wasn't. He most
certainly
was not."

"Who was?"

She hesitated. "All I can say is
that it wasn't Perry."

"But you don't want to say why
you're so sure?"

"No."

"What was your relationship to
Hilderly and Jenny Ruhl?"

Another long silence. "Jenny and
I went to grade school together. Perry and I went back a long way, too.
But I haven't heard from him in years, and I'm very surprised that he
would leave me money." She looked around the dreary, drafty tack room.
"Not that I can't use it. I'm barely holding things together here since
Glen died."

"Glen was your husband?"

She nodded. "Maybe you've heard
of him—former wide receiver with the Rams?"

I shook my head.

Ross sighed. "Well, it
was
a
long time ago. Glen got mixed up in the high life—blew a couple of
marriages, a lot of money, his career. Took what was left and came up
here, looking for property. I met him while I was working in a
real-estate office in Tomales. We
made our own world out here, and not a bad one at that."

"Mrs. Ross," I said after a
moment, "please tell me about your relationship to Hilderly. It's
important — "

"Do I need to, in order to claim
the inheritance?"

"No. It's clear that you're the
Libby Heikkinen named in his will, and his wishes will be carried out."

"In that case, I don't want to
talk about it. It's past history — long past, and much too sad."

I switched to a different tack.
"There was a fourth beneficiary whom I've been unable to locate— David
Arlen Taylor. Can you tell me where — "

"D.A.?" Again she looked
surprised; then the bitter smile returned. "Sure I can tell you. He's
where he's been the past fifteen years, where he'll be until he dies —
over on the other side of the bay. "

"Tomales Bay?"

"Uh-huh. His family owns a
restaurant and oyster beds a mile or two up the highway from Nick's
Cove."

"Is he a friend of yours?"

She seemed to consider. "We're .
. . something like that. I came up here in the first place because I
thought I could help D.A. Took me four damn years to realize there
wasn't anything that was going to help. Then I married Glen down in San
Francisco, where he was waiting for me to make up my mind. For years
I've had a life of sorts. But I'm still here for D.A. He knows where to
find me, if he needs me."

"What's wrong with him, that he
needs help?"

She pulled out the lower drawer
of the desk and propped her feet on it, obviously more at ease with the
subject of Taylor than Hilderly or Ruhl. "D.A.'s a substance abuser,"
she said. "He'll use anything that takes the edge off. Generally it's
alcohol, grass. Pills or crack when he can get them. Coke or ice when
he can afford it."

"Do you know why?"

"I know, but it's not worth
talking about. In a way his reasons are the same ones that
keep me out here with only the wind and my memories for company. But at
least I tried to rejoin the world—for a while. D.A. never did."

"What do you mean—rejoin the
world?"

She shrugged. "Just a figure of
speech. It's funny with D.A.: he got married about six years ago. Nice
wife. A lot younger than him. She's Miwok—so is he, partly. Lots of
Indians around here." She paused, studying my face. "Come to think of
it, you look like you've got some Indian blood, too."

"Only an eighth. Shoshone. About
D.A.?"

"Well, he and his wife have a
little boy and girl. Cute kids. You would have thought it'd change
things for him, but it didn't. He's still the same old D.A."

"He must be special to you, that
you moved here to try to help him."

"Yeah, well, maybe I needed to
help myself."

I remained silent, sensing that
if I asked what she meant I would just get another shrug. Outside, the
wind baffled around the building, setting loose shingles to rattling
above our heads. The cat stirred, stood up and arched its back in a
stretch, circled, then settled down again.

Finally I asked, "Are you sure
you don't know Thomas Y. Grant?"

"Like I said, the name's not
familiar. But it's a common one; maybe I've forgotten him. Who is he?"

"A lawyer, in San Francisco.
Specializes in divorce work for men only."

"Oh, one of those. Describe him,
would you?"

"He's in his early fifties, I'm
told, but looks younger. Tall, well built, thick gray hair, handsome,
except for a scar on his left cheek that reminds me of something out of
The Student Prince."

When I mentioned the scar, Ross
didn't react as dramatically as she had to Jenny Ruhl's name, but there
was a
tightening in the lines around her mouth. "This Grant
lives in San
Francisco?"

"Yes."

"Where? Is he well off?"

The question puzzled me, but I said, "He must be. He has a house on
Lyon Street in Pacific Heights. And the law firm's a big one, with
offices in other cities."

"And on top of that he inherits money from Perry. Coals to Newcastle,
I'd say."

I watched her, wondering if I'd imagined her reaction to the
description of Grant. After a moment she added, "Not that the money's
going to do D.A. any good, either. Unless Mia gets her hands on it
fast, it'll all go up his nose."

"Mia's his wife?"

"Yeah. You planning to go over there?"

"Right after I leave here."

"Well, try to talk to Mia first, if she's there. No telling what
condition D.A.'s in from day to day."

I nodded, but remained sitting, understandably reluctant to rush into
what promised to be an unpleasant situation. Besides, I wasn't sure I'd
gotten all I could from Ross. Possibly—if I steered clear of the
subject of Hilderly or Ruhl—she might open up to me. I said, "Your land
here—is it part of the National Seashore?"

"Yeah. I've got it on long-term lease. The government encourages dairy
ranching, for aesthetic and economic reasons."

"Dairy ranching? I thought—"

"The stable doesn't turn a profit; I only keep it going because I love
horses. The dairy business I contract out to the neighbor to the east.
It keeps a roof over my head and food on the table, but that's about
it. Glen loved it here; sometimes I think that's why I stay on." But
Ross, in spite of the fact that she must be lonely for company, didn't
seem eager for further conversation. She stood, stretching her rangy
body much as the cat had stretched its furry one.

"When you go see D.A., don't—well, don't take anything he says too
seriously."

"What do you think he might say?"

"God knows. The man's off in another world, has been for years. He . .
. well, you know what that kind of abuse can do to a person's mind."
She reached down and took the cat off my lap, a clear hint.

As we walked toward my car, Ross said, "What do I have to do to claim
the money?"

"Nothing. Hilderly's attorney is going to enter the will into probate,
and he'll contact you."

"Good. Like I said, I can damn well use it."

When we reached the MG, however, Ross suddenly seemed unwilling to let
me go. She leaned against it, cradling the cat to her down jacket and
staring out over the headland toward the lagoon. The two riders who had
been here earlier had reached the end of the trail and sat on their
mounts beside the glassy water. The pintos' mottled coats were
reflected on its surface.

"That lagoon," Ross said, "it's named for a man who ran cattle on this
land back in the mid eighteen hundreds— Carlyle Abbott. The story is
that Abbott was a heroic type. A ship—the Sea Nymph—was wrecked out
there off the coast in eighteen sixty-one. Abbot tied himself to some
bystanders with lariats and went into the surf after the crew. Saved
them all, except for the ship's steward. Steward was the first recorded
drowning victim off Point Reyes."

She paused, gaze fixed on the distance. "I'm not much on history, but
that story's always stuck with me. Guess I find it symbolic. I came out
here to save D.A., but I couldn't. Now he's sort of a drowning victim."

I retraced my route to Highway
One, I went over my interview with Libby Ross. The more I thought about
it, the more convinced I became that she had recognized Tom Grant from
my description. Perhaps if I played it right with D.A. Taylor he would
not only reveal more about the connection among Ross, Hilderly, Ruhl,
and himself, but also tell me something about Grant—provided he wasn't
too far gone to remember.

At the highway I turned north
toward Point Reyes Station, once a stop on the long-defunct North
Pacific Coast Railroad that operated between Duncan's Mills and
Sausalito from the late 1800s to the Great Depression. Most of the
buildings lining its main street are of turn-of-the-century vintage,
and the town has a rustic feel that belies the presence of its Pulitzer
Prize-winning newspaper,
The Point Reyes Light.
As I passed
through it I saw signs of progress since my last visit—spruced-up older
buildings and a number of new ones, including a small shopping center
where the
Light
had moved its offices. I couldn't help but
wonder how long it would be before the surrounding hills became covered
with
tracts. The dairy ranches that I passed on the other side of town
looked profitable, however; perhaps the demand for their products would
outstrip even the greed of real-estate developers and the influx of
those seeking escape from urban pressures.

The winding road led me inland,
then back to the bay, which was mostly mud fiats at this end. Oyster
beds began to appear—geometrically arranged rows of stakes poking up
from the water, within which the seed mollusks feed and grow, protected
from predators. Oystering, I knew, was the only real industry besides
dairy ranching in the Tomales Bay area, and I saw signs that it was not
a particularly thriving one. I passed an oyster farm that was up for
sale; a medium-sized boat yard with fishing craft in dry dock seemed
strangely deserted. In the tiny hamlet of Marshall, the oyster
restaurant was closed, its broken windows boarded. Cottages—most of
them old-fashioned clapboard, but also a few of those oddly angled
structures with windows in strange places that people seem compelled to
build near the water—stood on the narrow strip of land between the road
and the drop-off to the bay. When I passed Nick's Cove, my favorite
restaurant for fried oysters, the road began to wind uphill through a
thick stand of wind-warped cypress. I consulted my odometer.

In a little less than two miles a
faded sign supported by two tall poles appeared: TAYLOR'S OYSTERS. A
crushed-shell driveway angled down the slope from the road and ended in
a parking lot. I turned the MG and bounced through ruts and potholes.

The parking lot looked like a
junkyard: there were dead cars pulled over to one side in a field of
straggly anise weed; a couple of rusted trailers with laundry lines
strung between them sat next to a mound of oyster shells that spilled
down the hillside like tailings from an abandoned mine. Old machinery,
truck axles, a corroded automobile engine, and two rotted-out rowboats
were strewn about, and among them lay three of the mangiest
mongrel dogs I'd ever laid eyes on. The restaurant was straight ahead
on the water's edge.

I pulled up in front of the
sagging gray-white frame building, between an old red pickup truck
that looked like something out of
The Grapes of Wrath
and a
newish camper with Oregon plates. The windows of the restaurant were
coated with so much grime that it dulled the lighted Coors and Oly
signs. I got out of the car, leaning into the crisp wind from
offshore, and looked around.
 

To the left of the restaurant was
a path that led past a row of tiny cottages—possibly a defunct
tourist court. Their rooflines sagged, their metal chimneys tilted, and
many of the windows were covered with plywood or patched with cardboard
and tape. More dogs lounged on the path, their matted fur riffling in
the breeze. A small boy and smaller girl were playing at the foot of
another mound of shells; their voices were borne to me on the
wind—cheerful, despite their dismal surroundings.