by Lee Semsen
“You should have spent your first few months in Walla Walla learning your job,” said Esther. “Nobody expected you to do more.”
“No, they didn’t,” said Inch. “They expected me to do less.”
Esther was about to take a sip of water; she stopped and put down the glass and stared at him. “Abraham, this is verging on the morbid. You’re crying over an imaginary scenario. You don’t know what the commissioners were hiding; you don’t know what Charles Evans was hiding, if anything; you don’t know why he resigned and whether it had anything to do with wrongdoing by the commission –”
“You’re right, Esther. I don’t know anything at all.”
“Stop it, Abraham! Just stop it. Tell me why it’s so important that you know these things.”
For a few seconds Inch was dumbfounded, not so much by the question as by the way she asked it. “Why … it’s my job. I need to find out who killed Charles Evans.”
“And if what happened between Evans and the commissioners had nothing to do with his death?”
“Then I’m wrong.”
“Would that be so bad?”
“Of course it would,” said Inch. “I’d have to start over.”
“Wouldn’t it be better to start over sooner rather than later?” said Esther. “If you’re wrong, to find out as quickly as possible so you don’t waste any more time?”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to do.”
“Have you?” said Esther. “It seems to me that you’ve been trying to prove that you’re right.”
“It amounts to the same thing.”
“Not quite,” said Esther. “I can think of several people – three, to be precise – who would be pleased to prove you wrong, but not at all eager to prove you right.”
“You mean the three former commissioners?”
“That’s exactly who I mean. Why haven’t you talked to them?”
“Partly for the reason you just gave,” said Inch, “but mostly because they’re out of reach.”
“What does ‘out of reach’ mean?”
“I had Driscoll look them up,” said Inch. “One of them is dead – heart failure; he was 84. The others moved out of town several years ago. One lives in Scottsdale; the other south of Coos Bay.”
“On the Oregon coast?” Esther said. “That’s not out of reach.”
“It’s 400 miles away, Esther. It’s a seven-hour drive.”
“Then we’ll take my car, and you can sleep in the back.”
Inch knew that statistically women were safer drivers than men, but he’d never felt entirely comfortable riding in a car that was driven by a woman. It was a feeling – a prejudice, really – that he’d learned when he was a child. His father, like most adolescent males, had obtained his driver’s license within a week of his sixteenth birthday, but his mother hadn’t started driving until she was in her mid-thirties. The difference was like a foreign language learned at age five and one learned at age 50: his father drove like a native, but his mother drove with a pronounced accent. In her case, the accent took the form of nervousness. She did her best to conceal it, which wasn’t easy on the steep and crowded streets of Seattle, but Inch could sense that it was there, and he could feel it in himself, too. As a child, he wasn’t sure what it was; he only knew that it was absent when his father was driving.
So Inch didn’t sleep, either in the back seat or the front, during the drive to Bandon-by-the-Sea, 20 miles south of Coos Bay on the Oregon coast. He wouldn’t have missed much if he had; although the day started out dry, at 5:00 in the morning it also started off dark. The arrival of dawn two hours later was announced not by the appearance of the sun, but by a gradual lightening of the cloud cover which, a few miles west of Hood River, decided to produce a light but steady rain that persisted all the way to Portland and south through the Willamette Valley to Eugene, after which it turned to showers that made up in strength what they lacked in continuity. Approaching Roseburg, they couldn’t see more than 50 feet ahead.
The final leg of the trip, from Roseburg to Bandon on Oregon highway 42, seemed at first to be the least promising of all. Once they’d reached the west side of the coastal range, however, the clouds began to break up; and by the time they arrived at US 101, the sky was almost clear. Esther declared herself pleased and surprised because conditions were usually the opposite: steady rain on the coast, dry (or not so wet) weather in the interior. She added that she hoped it would bring about a commensurate improvement in Inch’s state of mind.
Although both Inch and Esther had visited the Oregon coast numerous times, neither had been to Bandon, only to the more heavily populated and frequently visited towns to the north. The “by-the-Sea” appellation was, as they found out, accurate enough; the core of the town was only a block away from the harbor, although a second commercial area stretched north and south along US 101 a quarter of a mile inland. It reminded Esther of Cannon Beach, she said, only on a smaller and quieter scale. And, she added, exploring the harbor and the nearby shops would keep her entertained for several hours if Inch wanted to put work before pleasure and interview the ex-commissioner immediately. He replied that he might as well get it over with.
Inch preferred to drop in unannounced when he questioned people in their homes; the answers he obtained were more spontaneous and usually more truthful. There was always a chance, of course, that the person he was seeking wouldn’t be at home, or in rare cases, refuse to answer the door, but when the round trip cost him an hour at the most, that wasn’t a huge disadvantage. In this instance, however, Inch had thought it wise to call ahead, and at 8:00 the previous evening he had telephoned Mr. Roderick Fowler at his home in Bandon to schedule a time to meet. A woman had answered with a singsong “Fowler residence” and told Inch that she would see if Mr. Fowler was available. When Fowler had finally picked up the phone, he hadn’t given Inch an opportunity to state his name or his reason for calling; he’d just said that he was busy, that he had guests, that he was expecting another call (which made Inch wonder why he’d taken so long to answer this one), and that he was free after 1:00 p.m. on Saturday but not before that. Inch had told him that he’d see him tomorrow afternoon and left it at that.
To make sure that Inch wouldn’t need to ask directions to Fowler’s house – something she knew that he wouldn’t do unless he became hopelessly lost – Esther had printed out a map of Bandon from the Internet. The map included a set of directions that assumed that the person in need of guidance was traveling south on 101 from Coos Bay, so after leaving Esther at the north end of 2nd Street, Inch drove back to 101 and turned right, having gathered from the printout that Fowler lived somewhere south of town. The directions, Inch was glad to see, were based on distances and street names, not on landmarks, and although such notations as “go 0.1 miles and turn north on Mars Lane” might have been better rendered as “go two blocks and turn right,” he arrived at Fowler’s address without incident.
The house, which was situated on a low promontory overlooking the ocean, was hidden from the road by a pale brick wall. Inch drove in through an open gate and parked at the apex of a semicircular driveway which, at its far end, led to a four-car garage. There were no other vehicles in sight.
The front door was opened by – judging from her voice – the same woman who had answered the phone the previous evening. She ushered Inch down a hall to a room that occupied the entire back of the house with floor-to-ceiling windows on three sides. Fowler, wearing a smile, rose out of a chair to greet him. The smile was briefly supplanted by a look of mild puzzlement – Inch assumed that Fowler was trying, and failing, to identify his visitor – but it returned in full force as he held out his hand. “Rod Fowler,” he said.
“Pleased to meet you, sir,” said Inch. “I called last night.”
“Ah,” Fowler said. “If I was short with you, I apologize. I had guests.”
“So you said.”
“People who have been helping with my campaign,” he continued afte
r a pause. “Good people. They’ve been working hard.”
“Are you running for office?” said Inch.
“Yes, for mayor. Isn’t that why you’re here?”
“You might say there’s a connection,” said Inch, “but no. About another issue.”
Fowler gave him a look and then said, “I keep thinking I ought to know your name –”
“Inch.”
“Inch? Definitely rings a bell –”
“From Walla Walla,” Inch added.
That did it. “Abraham Inch,” said Fowler. “You’re out of uniform, sheriff.”
“I’m off duty,” said Inch. “A friend and I are taking a weekend trip to the coast.”
“And you thought you’d drop in for old times’ sake?” said Fowler. He didn’t sound as if he believed it. “No, you called first. Well, what can I do for you? I’m afraid I haven’t kept up with events in Walla Walla. I haven’t been back since I left seven, maybe eight years ago.”
“This is about something that happened while you were there,” said Inch. “While you were serving on the county commission.”
“That’s a long time ago.”
“I don’t think you’ll have any trouble remembering,” said Inch. “It’s about the former sheriff, Charles Evans.”
“The name is familiar.”
“Is the reason why he was fired also familiar? I’d like to know what it was.”
“As I recall,” said Fowler, “it was a private matter between Mr. Evans and the commission.”
“Maybe after ten years it no longer needs to be private,” said Inch.
“After ten years, why do you want to know?”
“Mr. Evans is dead. He was killed last Sunday night,” said Inch.
Fowler raised and lowered his eyebrows. “I’m sorry to hear it.”
“It seems to me that his death would eliminate the need for secrecy,” said Inch.
“I can’t see that it does, sheriff,” said Fowler, “and even if I thought otherwise, it’s not my call to make.”
“Mr. Dubois is dead,” said Inch.
“Mr. Alderson is alive and living in Arizona,” said Fowler. “There are other people who would be affected as well.”
“Would you care to name them?”
“No, sir, I wouldn’t.”
“Someone at the Union-Bulletin?” said Inch. “The publisher, maybe?”
A shadow passed across Fowler’s face, but all he said was, “You’re guessing, Mr. Inch.”
“Inferring, Mr. Fowler.”
“And what is the basis for your inference?”
“That the newspaper refused to question your decision to terminate a popular and capable public servant.”
“Mr. Evans did not wish to speak of it, and neither did we,” said Fowler. “The newspaper had no information to print, and to their credit, they refused to speculate.”
“They may not have had the answers, but they could have asked the questions,” said Inch.
Fowler looked away for a moment, and when he looked back, he sighed. “I will tell you, Mr. Inch, that no one presently connected with the Union-Bulletin was involved in the decision not to ask the questions, as you put it.”
“From what I understand,” said Inch, “there were other questions that the newspaper refused to ask.”
“If you want me to respond to that, you’ll have to be more specific.”
“A Union-Bulletin reporter wrote an article criticizing the commission for conducting so much of its business in executive session,” said Inch.
“I seem to remember something of the sort.”
“The article was never published,” said Inch.
“I meant that I remember the reporter. Young and brash and full of himself. Prone to exaggeration.”
“So you weren’t conducting the majority of your business in private?” said Inch.
“More than usual,” Fowler admitted. “Not by choice. That’s what we were advised to do.”
“By whom?”
“By the county attorney.”
“For what reason?”
“I’m not going to answer that, Mr. Inch,” said Fowler. “Mr. Tolliver has returned to private practice and moved to Spokane, if you’re thinking of questioning him.”
“I try not to waste my time interrogating lawyers,” said Inch. “A man has been murdered, Mr. Fowler. Is there nothing you can say that will help me find who killed him?”
Fowler didn’t answer; didn’t even shake his head. Finally Inch said, “I wonder, Mr. Fowler, if you’re thinking that your experience as a county commissioner in Walla Walla qualifies you to be mayor of Bandon?”
“Is that a threat, Mr. Inch?”
“No, Mr. Fowler. Just a reminder.”
Inch felt better as he drove away from Fowler’s house, although it was more the sort of grim satisfaction that comes from slamming a door after an argument than a lasting elevation of mood. He wondered if he might have learned more from Fowler if he’d acted less confrontational. Or maybe he wouldn’t have learned anything at all. At least he’d managed to confirm that the commissioners had been hiding something. And that they were still hiding it ten years later.
He drove back to the center of Bandon, parked Esther’s car where he could see the harbor, and turned off the engine. After a few minutes he rolled down the window so he could hear and smell the ocean. Then he realized the absurdity of what he was doing: it was a fine fall day, the ocean was 50 feet away, and he was sitting in a car. He rolled up the window, got out of the car, locked it, and walked across the street.
Looking down at the boats in the harbor reminded him of his father. Boats had been one of his few pleasures – not owning and operating a boat, because he hadn’t been able to afford one – but dreaming that one day he would be able to retire and buy a boat and spend his days trolling Lake Washington, or if the winds were calm, exploring the San Juan Islands. Once of Inch’s earliest memories was a picnic at the Chittenden Locks where they watched the weekend boaters being shuttled from their freshwater moorages in Lake Union out to the salt water of Puget Sound.
Every spring, Inch’s father took his family to the boat show. He would spend hours making notes, gathering brochures, and talking to salesmen – and later, back at home, poring over what he had collected and deciding which boat he would buy, if this was the year to buy it. But that year had never arrived because his father had died before he could retire.
When he was in college, Inch had taken a weekend cruise with his then-fiancée and future in-laws from Seattle to Victoria, British Columbia, on his father-in-law’s boat. This was a 40-foot cabin cruiser, almost a yacht, that his father-in-law had owned for many years, and although he seemed proud of it, his pride had mostly to do with its value and little to do with any of its other attributes, such as seaworthiness or elegance of design. He hadn’t piloted the boat himself but spent most of his time in the cabin, and Inch was left with the feeling that his own father would have derived more enjoyment from an hour on that boat than his father-in-law took from the entire journey.
It was not quite 3:00 p.m., and Inch was thinking that if he and Esther could meet early, they could take a walk on the beach before dinner; he’d seen a sign promising beach access on the drive back from Fowler’s house. He turned his back on the harbor and walked over to 2nd Street and started going from shop to shop to see if he could find her. Fortunately, he wasn’t much of a shopper; otherwise it would have been dark by the time he reached the bakery, where Esther was sitting at a table under what appeared to be a community bulletin board. She’d chosen that table deliberately, as she told him; posted directly above her was a flyer headed “Your Next Mayor” with a picture of Roderick Fowler, followed by a list of his qualifications for the position: “Eight-year resident of Bandon, Member of the Chamber of Commerce, Owner-operator of two successful local businesses [a real-estate office and a construction company], Volunteer coordinator for the annual Bandon Cranberry Festival,” and so on. Now
here did it say that he’d lived in Walla Walla and served on the county commission.
On Sunday afternoon, they made their way home through weather that was identical to that of the previous day. Inch drove, and Esther guided the conversation, touching on a variety of topics without ever mentioning Roderick Fowler, the ten-year-old secrets of the Walla Walla County Commission, or the murder of Charles Evans. During last night’s dinner, Inch had given Esther a brief report on his encounter with Fowler, and Esther had gathered from what he’d said (and how he’d said it) that although he hadn’t been enlightened by the interview, he hadn’t been befuddled by it, either, and at least he no longer felt stupid. After that, she had decided that he needed to take a break from the investigation and had done her best to ensure that he didn’t have time to brood about it. Inch wasn’t sure whether he liked that or not; his usual inclination when working on a case that was difficult or frustrating was to keep at it until it was solved, or if that wasn’t possible, until he had achieved a breakthrough that allowed him see clearly how it could be brought to a close. He was no nearer to that than when they’d left Walla Walla.
Chapter 7
On Monday morning, Inch gave Driscoll a full account of his meeting with Roderick Fowler. The recitation produced a dozen or so nods and several thoughtful looks but no actual words until the end, when Inch mentioned that he and Esther had spent an hour Saturday afternoon and most of Sunday morning exploring the beach south of town. Driscoll then revealed that his parents had never taken him to the beach as a child, and that he’d first seen the ocean when he and a group of high-school friends had driven to Ocean Shores near the end of their senior year. He’d been overwhelmed by the sight and forgotten why they were there (mostly to drink beer, he said) and wandered away while his friends had polished off two cases of Henry Weinhard’s and, in the process, made so much commotion that they were picked up by the police and tossed in jail for the night. He’d returned from his ramblings to find his friends missing and (as he learned later) their car towed away. Not knowing what else to do, he’d slept on the beach, and in the morning a couple of campers had told him what had happened and given him a ride into town. He’d found his friends slumped over a pot of coffee in a diner near the police station. “Anyway,” he concluded, “I don’t want to make the same mistake with my son.”