“What did she look like?”
“Around thirty-five. Blond hair, the dye job kind. Not bad looking if you like the hard type. Nice figure”—Buckner lifted his hands ten inches or so from his chest—“gazongas out to here.”
“Well dressed?”
“Not as if she had money, no.”
So what did this mean? And did it have anything to do with Fentress’ trip to the Russian River and the shootings in Floyd Mears’ cabin?
8
Pete Retzyck lived with his wife in a small, somewhat dilapidated old house on Persia Street. He was home, working inside an attached, single-car garage with the door raised. The door was what he was working on, up on a ladder doing something to the automatic opener mechanism. He was brusque at first, but when I explained that Joe Buckner had given me his address and told him the reason I was calling on him his irritation morphed into a kind of grim bewilderment and he was cooperative enough.
“I still can’t believe Ray’s dead,” he said when he came down off the ladder. “Or how he died. Craziest damn thing I ever heard of.”
“So you’re in agreement with his wife and Joe Buckner.”
“Damn straight.” Retzyck picked up a rag, wiped grease off his hands. He was somewhat younger than Fentress and Buckner, late thirties—a lean, long-armed guy with a mop of walnut-brown hair and a nose like a bent and elongated hook. “If Ray was into anything, it wasn’t buying pot or stealing it at the point of a gun.”
“Why do you say ‘if he was into anything,’ Mr. Retzyck?”
“… Well…”
“Did he give you the impression he might have something going when you saw him last week?”
Retzyck hesitated again, looked away from me and up at the opener mechanism. “Goddamn thing never has worked right,” he muttered. “Sticks halfway open sometimes no matter what I do to it. You know anything about garage door openers?”
I said, “Afraid not,” and then prodded him back to the subject of Ray Fentress by repeating my question.
“Ah, shit, I don’t know. Ray had something on his mind, that’s for sure. All revved up, couldn’t seem to sit still.”
“You ask him what it was?”
“Sure I did. The move to the Southwest, he says, starting a new life.”
“He told you he was planning to buy a farm?”
“Yeah. What’re you gonna use for money to buy a farm, I asked him. Doreen saved enough while I was away, he says, but he got kind of shifty eyed when he said it. So I pressed him a little.”
“And?”
“And nothing,” Retzyck said. “All he’d say was money wouldn’t be a problem. But I’ll tell you again, mister—whatever he was up to, it didn’t have anything to do with pot or using a gun to get himself a stake. No way.”
“Do you have any idea what his connection to Floyd Mears was?”
“No.” Then, after a pause, “Well, there was a guy had a name something like that, met him once at this hunting camp Ray and me went to, but that was a couple of years ago.”
“Where was this camp?”
“Lake County. Up by Lake Pillsbury. Good hunting in that area, plenty of blacktail deer.”
Lake County and Sonoma County are contiguous, though Lake Pillsbury is a considerable distance from the Russian River resort area. A long way from the city, too. “How did you and Ray happen to go there?”
“Guy I know invited us. Old army buddy of mine, lives up that way. We keep in touch.”
“You and Ray go just the one time?”
“No, twice. I think he went another time or two by himself.”
“The man with the name that might’ve been Floyd Mears. Was he there the second time you went?”
“I’m not sure. Might’ve been.”
“Can you describe him?”
“After two years? Besides, I’m no good at that,” Retzyck said. “One face is the same as another to me. And there were maybe a dozen guys at the camp, all strangers except for Ray and my buddy Anthony.”
“Did Ray spend much time with this man?”
“Can’t tell you that, either. My memory of those times is pretty hazy. There was a lot of drinking when we weren’t out in the woods hunting … you know how it is when a bunch of guys get together stag away from home.”
Well, no, I didn’t. Not where blood sports were involved.
“All I remember for sure,” Retzyck went on, “is that I didn’t nail a buck and neither did Ray, not either time we went together.”
“The friend who invited you to the camp—Anthony, was it?”
“Anthony Bellini.”
“Still in touch with him?”
“Sure, off and on.”
“I’d like to talk to him. Would you call him, pave the way for me?”
“What, you mean now?”
“If you don’t mind. You can use my cell phone.”
Retzyck shrugged. “Okay, but why bother? I mean, even if it was Mears at the camp and that’s how Ray knew him, what difference does it make?”
“Probably none,” I said, “but I don’t have much else to go on right now. That’s the way my job works sometimes. Grab at any thread you can find and hope it leads you where you want to go.”
“Some job.”
He went into the house to get his friend’s phone number, and when he came back I gave him my cell and he made the call. But Anthony Bellini wasn’t answering his cell; the call went to voice mail. At my request Retzyck left a message explaining who I was and what I was after, and saying that I would make direct contact later on.
When he was done, he handed my phone back saying, “You really think you can find out why Ray got himself killed in that pot dealer’s cabin? You’re not just taking Doreen’s money?”
“That’s not how I operate. I won’t take her money at all if I can’t find out.”
“Yeah? Freebie? How come?”
“Because I feel sorry for her—”
“Sorry don’t pay bills.”
“—and because I’m the one who found the bodies. I don’t like loose ends, Mr. Retzyck, particularly not when I’m personally involved.”
“So you’re doing this for yourself as much as Doreen.”
I hadn’t thought of it that way before, but in a sense it was true. “Partly,” I admitted, “but my clients come first. Always.”
Retzyck said again, “Some job,” this time with the sort of mild wonder people have for a breed they don’t quite understand.
* * *
It was Sunday morning, on my third try, before I reached Anthony Bellini. He was cooperative enough, but he didn’t have much to tell me, at least not yet. He hadn’t known Floyd Mears, couldn’t recall if that was the name of the man who’d been at the hunting camp when Ray Fentress was there two years ago.
“I sort of remember him,” Bellini said. “He wasn’t a regular. One of the other guys brought him a couple of times—Sam Patterson, I think it was.”
“Do you have contact information for Patterson?”
“Not where he is now. Sam got himself killed in a hunting accident up in the Sierras about a year ago.”
Another reason to avoid blood sports, at least to my way of thinking. “Did he live in Sonoma County?”
“No, here in Lake County. Kelseyville. But he got around pretty good, Sam did. Knew a lot of people, brought more than a few guests to the camp. The more the merrier, that’s our policy.”
“Uh-huh. Anyone else in the core group who might remember the man?”
“Jason Quinones. He owns the property, started the camp years back. He’d know if anyone does.”
“Would you ask him for me?”
“No problem. Give me your number; I’ll get back to you.”
* * *
Late afternoon when Bellini called. “The guy at the camp was Floyd Mears, all right,” he said. “Jason keeps a list of everybody comes there and how often. Mears was there half a dozen times over three seasons.”
“How man
y when Ray Fentress was also there?”
“Three, according to Jason’s records.”
“The last time was when?”
“Couple of years ago. Middle of May.”
“Of 2014.”
“Right.”
Middle of May. Four weeks before Ray Fentress was arrested on the drunk driving, resisting arrest, and aggravated assault charges. If there was any significance in that, I had no idea what it could be.
“Does Jason remember whether Mears and Ray Fentress buddied up?” I asked.
“No. He says Mears kept mostly to himself.”
So all I had for certain was testimony that Fentress and Mears had been in relatively close proximity on three occasions, close enough so that they’d at least had a nodding acquaintance; long weekends in the woods draw like-minded individuals together to some degree, even if they’re strangers to each other at first. Which apparently explained how the two of them had met, but nothing else. If anything, it strengthened the prima facie case against Fentress as the catalyst in the double homicide.
This was how things shaped up: At the hunting camp Fentress either was told or found out some other way that Mears grew and sold marijuana. While in prison Fentress concocted a scheme to hijack pot and cash in order to finance a move to the Southwest and the purchase of a farm; and when he got out he checked to make sure Mears was still living in the same place, then bought a Saturday night special and drove up to the Russian River to carry out the plan. Mears wasn’t home, so Fentress shot the Doberman because it was the only way he could get past the animal and into the grow shed. After he looted it, he went into the cabin looking for money and more pot. Mears came home and caught him, either was armed with the .45 or had the piece stashed where he could get at it quickly, and both of them died in a hail of lead.
Added up well enough, no evident loose ends. That was how Heidegger and his superiors viewed it, and they’d be even more satisfied when I told them of the hunting camp connection.
It didn’t satisfy me, though.
What was wrong with it was that it didn’t fit Fentress’ character. His wife, his friends, his background, couldn’t all be wrong about the kind of man he’d been. Sure, he’d committed a couple of violent felonies, but they hadn’t involved sober premeditation or firearms or pot or theft. And yes, prison can change a man, but seldom to such a radical degree in only eighteen months in a minimum-security lockup like Mule Creek.
So if the obvious explanation was the wrong one, I was right back to square one. Why had Fentress gone to see Mears that day, if not to buy or steal marijuana?
There were other nagging questions, too. Why had the dog been shot if it wasn’t to get into the shed to steal weed? Where had the Saturday night special come from if Fentress hadn’t brought it with him? Why had he been so sure he could lay hands on enough money to buy himself a farm? Where had he expected to get it and by what means, and did it have anything to do with Mears?
His little tête-à-tête with the unknown blonde in the Bighorn Tavern bothered me, too. Out of character again, unless she was somehow tied into his money plans. I’d told Pete Retzyck about it and asked if Fentress had said anything to him about her. No, and Retzyck didn’t know any woman who answered her description. He’d also seconded Joe Buckner’s declaration that Fentress never cheated on his wife—“Ray kept his dick where it belonged,” was the way Retzyck put it. So unless somebody else I talked to knew who she was, I had no way of finding out.
Dead ends looming all along the line.
9
Kennedy Landscape Designs was a substantial operation that occupied an entire block, had an employee roll of more than two dozen, and serviced other nearby Peninsula communities in addition to Millbrae—San Bruno, Burlingame, San Mateo. Tamara had told me this, and a sign at the entrance corroborated it. The sign also said that it was Diamond Certified, whatever that meant, and listed its specialties: Japanese gardens, ponds and waterfalls, brick and flagstone patios and retaining walls, irrigation systems, sprinkler installation and repair, complete tree service.
It was a little before noon on Monday when I got there. I’d called ahead for an appointment with the owner, Philip Kennedy, and a good thing I had, because he was busy when I walked into the cottage-style office building and I had to wait ten minutes past the scheduled time before he was free to see me. His office might as well have been a greenhouse, as full as it was of potted ferns and schefflera and a colorful array of flowering plants I didn’t recognize. Kennedy was a plump, energetic little man in his sixties; if he’d had a white beard and worn a tall red cap, given the business he was in, he’d have resembled a garden gnome.
He said, “Sorry to keep you waiting, it’s been a busy morning,” and pumped my hand and invited me to sit down.
I parked my hinder in a rattan chair next to a plant that had curved, fingerlike leaves—not too close, on the off-chance it was carnivorous. Instead of occupying the chair behind his desk, Kennedy sat close by in a chair similar to the one I was in. So his broad desk wouldn’t be between us, I thought. The companionable type, a contributing factor, no doubt, to the success of his business.
“Ray Fentress. Such a sad case. First that trouble with the police that sent him to prison, and now…” Kennedy sighed and wagged his head. “I feel sorry for his wife.”
“So do I. That’s why I’m trying to help her.”
“In what way, if you don’t mind my asking? There’s no question about what happened at the Russian River, is there?”
“There might be, but I’m not investigating the homicides. Couldn’t if I wanted to.” I told him what Doreen Fentress had hired me to do.
“Closure,” he said, nodding.
“One way or another.”
“You don’t sound optimistic.”
“Frankly, I’m not.”
“Sad,” Kennedy said again. He scooted his chair over to the desk, scribbled on a pad of paper. “Making a note to send her flowers,” he said when he turned back to me.
Good for him. Kindhearted as well as sociable.
I asked, “Did Fentress happen to get in touch with you after he was released?”
“No, he didn’t. I didn’t even know he’d been released.”
“No contact at all since his arrest, then.”
“None.”
“He was employed here seven years, is that right?”
“Sounds right. I’d have to look at the records to be sure.”
“Was he part of a regular crew?”
Kennedy wagged his head again. “Ray was a jack-of-all-trades, so to speak—good at landscaping, good at tree work, good at just about everything we do. So we put him wherever he was needed, whatever project.”
“Do you recall if there was an employee he was particularly friendly with?”
“I don’t, no. I didn’t know him well, you understand. Thirty people working for me, can’t get to know them all.” He sounded regretful of the fact. “But he was a good employee; I can tell you that. Always on time, hardly ever missed a day, liked working with plants, flowers, trees. Never any problems with him until the last month or so before he was arrested.”
“Oh? What happened then?”
“Well, he began drinking rather heavily. Not on the job, so far as I know, but he came to work badly hungover three or four times. Missed a couple of days, too. Hal Waxman finally had to give him a shape-up-or-else warning.” Another headshake. “I hate to fire a good man, but when I can’t count on him anymore and his conduct reflects badly on the business…”
“Do you have any idea what caused the sudden binge drinking?”
“No. Something weighing on his mind, I suppose.”
“You mentioned Hal Waxman. Who would he be?”
“Our yard foreman. You might talk to him.”
“I’ll do that. Where do I find him?”
“In the distribution center, probably. I’ll phone over there and tell him you’re coming.”
* * *
/> Distribution center was a polite term for warehouse, the largest of the three buildings on the lot. It was crammed with all sorts of landscaping materials and machinery that included rototillers, backhoes, John Deere Gators. A greenhouse attached to the rear was lush with plants, every kind from the bedding variety of flowers to large shrubs, and multiple varieties and sizes of trees in tubs.
Hal Waxman was waiting for me at the open entrance doors. The yard foreman looked to be in his early forties, a pear-shaped man with a matching pear-shaped face—narrow at the brow, somewhat broad across the cheeks and jawline. He wore a pair of green overalls with Kennedy Landscaping Designs stitched over the breast pocket, had a clipboard in one hand and an empty black-bowled briar pipe clamped between his teeth.
He saw me looking at the pipe while we shook hands. “I quit smoking fifteen years ago,” he said a little ruefully, “but I can’t get out of the habit of chewing on the stem.”
“I’m an ex-smoker myself. Coffin nails, to my everlasting regret.”
“Yeah. You still get cravings?”
“Not in a long time.”
“I do, but only after a big meal. Well. The boss said you wanted to ask me about Ray Fentress?”
“About the last month he was employed here, yes.”
“Uh-huh. Before he started boozing and his life went to hell. Damn shame. Nice guy, steady, no trouble until then.”
“You have any idea what happened to change him?”
“No,” Waxman said. “I asked him straight out the morning he came in still half in the bag, but he wouldn’t talk about it. Whatever it was, it was eating hell out of him.”
“When exactly did it start, do you remember?”
He worked his memory, gnawing audibly on the pipe stem like a dog worrying a stick. “While we were doing a major relandscaping job at the Holloway estate in Burlingame. Fountains, waterfalls, flagstone paths, you name it.”
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