Don't Turn Your Back on the Ocean

by Janet Dawson

  Someone clapped me on the shoulders. I heard Uncle Dom’s rough and melodic Italian shouting over the sea lions as I turned. He introduced me to three old men I recognized from the bocce court, each as silver-haired and weathered as my great-uncle. Uncle Dom had been telling his friends about last night’s adventures, embellishing the tale dramatically with each telling, I was sure.

  The purse seiner finished unloading and I excused myself. I spotted Donna near the end, with one of her Fish-and-Game colleagues. While he talked to some of the fishermen, my cousin watched one of the big brown pelicans. It sat on the wharf railing, interested only in food, so trusting and heedless of dangers posed by the humans who walked nearby.

  “I hope the pelican mutilations stop,” Donna said in my ear when I joined her. “Now that Lacy and Frank are in custody. Were they responsible? If they were, is there any way to prove it other than the dates?”

  “I don’t know,” I told her. “It’s another one of those theories I had. If the mutilations stop, maybe I’m right.”

  “If they don’t, we’ve still got some sicko out there hurting birds. And somewhere down the line, next year or the year after, there will be another copycat.” Donna sighed. “I hate to sound so cynical.”

  The pelican stretched his enormous wings and sailed into the air. It skimmed the water, blue sky its backdrop, then plunged into the depths, emerging with a silvery fish that had escaped the nets. Then it swallowed its prey as the sea lions barked all around us.

  My cousin and I walked back up the wharf toward the pumphouse, where another boat was unloading. Bobby was there now, talking with several of his contemporaries. He saw us, waved, and headed our way.

  “You two make a hell of a crew,” he said with a grin. “Not that I’d want to make a run like that every night. What time did the cops let you go?”

  “Midnight, or thereabouts,” I said. “Magruder and I went over it several times. How about you?”

  “Eleven-thirty. And I’ve been talking to the Coast Guard since eight A.M. Been looking for you and Donna. The DA wants us in his office at one.”

  “My supervisor will be thrilled,” Donna said wryly.

  I looked at my watch and sighed. “Damn. I’ve said my good-byes to Errol and Minna and I’ve got my bag in the car. Magruder said it was okay for me to leave. I was hoping to go back to Oakland sometime today. At this rate I’ll never get out of town.”

  Bobby’s smile quirked. “Thanks, cuz. For figuring this one out. I guess it’s finally over.”

  I shook my head. “You’ll be surprised at how long and slow the legal wheels grind.” I paused. “I saw Ariel’s family this morning.”

  The smile left Bobby’s face and his dark eyes turned somber. “They know I didn’t kill her? That’s important to me, even if they don’t like me. Just so they know I loved her.”

  “They know.” I put my hand on his shoulder. “Maybe after a while you can talk with them, about your memories of Ariel. It might help. They’ll grieve for her a long time.”

  “So will I,” Bobby said, so quietly I could barely hear him. He stuck his hands into his pockets and walked toward the end of the wharf.

  “Have you talked with your mother?” Donna asked as we began walking toward land again.

  I didn’t answer right away. “She’s on my list of people to see,” I said finally. “Before I leave town.”

  “Don’t let too much time pass,” she said. I wasn’t sure whether she meant between visits, or conversations.

  I didn’t see Mother when I walked into Café Marie. It was a quarter to noon and Rachel Donahoe was on the telephone in the office. The radio at the bar was tuned to the same station it had been before, playing songs from the Big Band era. When Rachel hung up the phone, she told me Mother was out talking to a prospective customer about catering a party, but she’d be back soon.

  I wandered down the hall and into the kitchen, where the pastry chef was putting the finishing touches on something delectably chocolate. Julian Surtees stood at the chopping block, dicing vegetables with a knife. All the cooking smells kicked in.

  “Any chance of getting some lunch?” I asked.

  Julian scowled at me over his cleaver. “Do I look like a short-order cook?”

  I laughed. “Julian, you’re going to miss me when I go back to Oakland. Monterey will seem so dull.”

  Julian rolled his sharp brown eyes heavenward and drawled, “I count the hours.” He set down the cleaver, crossed the kitchen to the big refrigerator, and pulled open the door. “I’ve got some smoked chicken ravioli with wild mushroom sauce. No mice.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  Julian carried the container back to the nearest stove, emptied the contents into a large pan, and fired up a burner. Then he walked to the window separating the kitchen from the bar, reached for a bottle, and poured two glasses full of brown liquid. He handed one to me and I sniffed it before tasting it. Sherry, a very good one.

  “Marie will miss you, even if I won’t,” he said after taking a liberal swig.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “She talks about you all the time.” He picked up a wooden spoon and stirred the ravioli heating on the stove. “My daughter this, my daughter that. The famous detective from Oakland.” He set down the spoon and reached for his glass. “I was almost looking forward to meeting you, after that buildup. Little did I know I’d wind up on the grill.”

  “But Julian, you made such a tasty target.” I smiled and sipped the sherry. “With your attitude, you had suspect written all over your forehead.”

  “How about patsy?” he growled. I knew he was thinking about Lacy and how she’d used him. “Well, screw it. Water under the bridge.” He swallowed another mouthful of sherry.

  “So, my mother talks about me a lot,” I said.

  “Yeah. I got the impression she’s proud of you.”

  He stirred the ravioli again. Then he walked to the shelf where the tableware was stored, grabbed a plate and a large spoon, and set them on the cutting board. He cocked one black eyebrow at me as he transferred my lunch from pan to plate. “Does that surprise you?”

  I balanced the plate on one hand and used the spoon to bisect one ravioli. “If she’s proud of me, why doesn’t she tell me?” I asked him.

  Julian retrieved the bottle of sherry from the bar and topped off our glasses. “Maybe it’s because you’re as prickly as I am,” he said. He raised his glass and saluted me with his sardonic smile. “Bon appétit.”

  Mother came in just as I was polishing off the last of the ravioli. When she’d set down the leather case she carried, she glanced at Julian and me, then examined the label on the bottle of sherry. “The best in the house. It’s a little early, isn’t it?”

  “It’s never too early,” Julian declared. He fetched another glass. I set my plate in the sink, picked up the bottle, and took Mother by the arm.

  “Let’s go into the dining room and talk.”

  We sat down at the table nearest the bar as Ella Fitzgerald sang softly in the background, accompanied by the steady rhythm of Julian’s knife. I filled our glasses and Mother looked at hers, then picked it up and sipped the contents.

  “I heard all about it, from Nick and Uncle Dom,” she said. “And Karl, after he finished talking with the authorities last night. You could have been killed out there.”

  “But it didn’t happen. We caught up with Lacy in time to prevent her from dumping the stuff. She killed Ariel, you know.”

  “It’s hard to believe. Everything, from the restaurant to murder. You think you know a person and maybe you don’t. And why? For money? For revenge?” She shook her head.

  I’d covered this ground before, last night with Sergeant Magruder and again this morning. Besides, that wasn’t why I’d come.

  “I have to ask you about something Karl said when he left that night you and I fought. He said, ‘You were right about her, Marie.’ What did he mean by that?”

  Mother flushed. Sh
e moved her sherry glass in a circle on the table’s surface. “It was something I said earlier in the summer. About you.”

  “What about me?”

  She looked distinctly embarrassed but she took a deep breath and plunged ahead. “I told him you’re like a pit bull. When you get your teeth into something you don’t let go until it’s over.”

  I tilted my head to one side, not sure whether to put a positive or negative spin on the description. “Did you mean it as a compliment?”

  “At the time, yes.”

  “Fine. Then I’ll take it as one,” I said, aware that the only reason Karl Beckman recalled the remark was because my teeth were sunk firmly into his ankle. “There’s a lot of truth to the pit-bull analogy.” Now it was my turn to take a deep breath. “Just as there’s a lot of truth in some of the things we said to each other Friday night.”

  “I know,” Mother said, meeting my eyes. “Your father once said you and I don’t get along because we’re so much alike. He’s right. I wish we could be friends, Jeri.”

  “We can, I suppose, if we work at it I’m willing if you are.”

  She smiled and reached across the table for my hand. “Of course I am. Even if we’re at each other’s throats, I’m still your mother. I do love you.”

  It still felt awkward, I thought Maybe it always would. At least we were speaking to each other.

  Someone pulled open the door of Café Marie and walked slowly toward the bar. It was Karl Beckman, his big shoulders slumped, his broad face tired and drawn. He looked as though he had been through every wringer the county had to offer. I got to my feet and stepped behind the bar, fetching yet another glass. When I returned to the table I pulled out a chair and beckoned to Karl.

  “Have some sherry. You look like you could use it.”

  “I spent the morning in the DA’s office.” His hazel eyes looked stunned at the extent of the havoc his sister-in-law had wrought.

  “I’m due there at one.” I consulted my watch. “I’d better get going.”

  “Are you spending the night at Errol’s?” Mother asked. “Or do you want to come back to my house? You still have the key, don’t you?”

  I started to tell her that I planned to head back to Oakland as soon as I was finished with the DA—or he with me, as was probably more the case. I thought about the key I was going to mail to her, my overnight bag in the Toyota, and my cat and the need to get back to work. But what was one more night?

  “I’ll have the teakettle on when you get home,” I said.

  About the Author

  JANET DAWSON’S first Jeri Howard novel, Kindred Crimes, won the St. Martin’s Press/Private Eye Writers of America Best First Private Eye Novel Contest. It was nominated for Shamus, Anthony, and Macavity awards in the Best First Novel category. In addition to the Jeri Howard series, she has written numerous short stories, including Macavity winner “Voice Mail,” and Shamus nominee “Slayer Statute.” For more information on Janet Dawson and her books, check her website at www.janetdawson.com.