“Rumors?”
“I understand Randall was a ladies’ man. One rumor has it that he didn’t mind playing around with his friends’ wives.”
Treacle looked startled. He opened his mouth, shut it again; after about five seconds he said, “Munroe and Helen O’Daniel?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Who told you that?”
“A woman named Penny Belson. Is it true?”
“I don’t know. My God, how would I know?”
“Randall didn’t flaunt his women?”
“No.”
“Or talk to you about them?”
“Well, sometimes. But never anything about Helen.”
“What about Helen? You think she’s a nice, faithful wife or what?”
He hesitated. One hand fumbled inside his coat and came out with a panatela. He started to unwrap it, but then his memory told him I wasn’t partial to cigar smoke. He gave me a nervous glance and put the thing away again.
“You didn’t answer my question, Mr. Treacle.”
He cleared his throat. “Well,” he said, “I . . . guess I’ve heard some things about Helen myself.”
“Like what? That she plays around?”
“Yes.”
“With anybody you know?”
“No. At least, I don’t think so.”
“Is O’Daniel aware of what’s going on, you think?”
Treacle nodded reluctantly. “He’s the one who told me about it.”
That startled me a little. “He told you his wife sees other men? Why?”
“We were drinking one night at the country club a few months ago. We’d both had a little too much. I don’t know, he just started to talk about it.”
“Was he upset, angry?”
“No. Just . . . matter-of-fact. He didn’t seem to care, particularly. He said it’s been going on a long time.”
“And he puts up with it? Why doesn’t he get a divorce?”
“He can’t afford to. He’d have to give Helen half of everything he has. That would mean liquidating assets, selling his house and boat—he just won’t do it.”
“Okay from his point of view,” I said. “But what about hers? Why doesn’t she get a divorce and take half of everything he’s got?”
“I don’t know.”
“What’s your opinion of her? What kind of person do you think she is?”
“I don’t really know her very well,” he said. “We’re not friends.”
“She ever make a pass at you?”
“My God, no.”
“What would you have done if she had?”
“Turned her down, of course,” he said a little stiffly. “Munroe may have played games like that, but I don’t.”
“Suppose Randall did play games like that. And suppose O’Daniel found out. How do you think he’d have reacted?”
He shook his head. “I can’t say.”
“How did the two of them get along? Were they friendly?”
“Yes. Of course.”
“No friction or anything like that lately?”
“None that I know of.” Treacle frowned at me. “You’re not trying to suggest that Frank had anything to do with Munroe’s death? If you are . . . ”
He didn’t finish the sentence, and I didn’t have to answer his question, because Kerry was coming back from the john. I let her sit down again; then I finished my beer and said, “My turn to be excused. I’ve got some things to do.”
Treacle said, “You’re leaving?”
“Yes. I’ll be in touch later on. You are planning to stick around Redding for a while, aren’t you?”
“Certainly.”
Kerry was letting me have one of her looks. “Where are you going?”
“I told you before—up to Shasta Lake for another talk with Frank O’Daniel. You can still come along if you want.”
“No. I feel like having another beer.”
“Suit yourself.” I got out of the booth. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours. Then we can have dinner.”
She didn’t say anything. As far as she was concerned I was already gone. And from the expression on her face she didn’t much care when I came back.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Dusk was just starting to settle when I crossed the bridge over Turntable Bay, at the southern end of the lake. The sun was gone behind the peaks of the Coast Range and the sky in that direction was a dark, smoky red, like old wine. The waterways on both sides of the bridge, dotted with boats and little wooded islets, were glass-smooth and bright with reflections of the dying daylight.
I drove on up Highway 5. On a map, Shasta Lake looks a little like a bony hand with five fingers splayed out toward the north. Hills and heavy forestland obscure parts of it from the highway; they also hide the huge bulk of Shasta Dam, the reason for the lake’s existence. Shasta Lake is the largest man-made body of water in the state and has as many miles of shoreline as a year has days. Boating, waterskiing, and fishing are its main attractions. You can get black bass, Kokanee trout, and you don’t have to work too hard for the privilege. Just the thought of a Kamloops trout pan-fried in butter made me drool a little. And itch to get this investigation wrapped up so I could hie on out into one of the fingers with my fishing gear.
Mountain Harbor wasn’t difficult to find, as it turned out; there was an exit for it right off the freeway. A narrow, switchbacked road took me down a rocky hillside, through a copse of pines, and right up against the lake. There wasn’t much to the place. The harbor was small, walled on two sides by high, barren peaks; trees grew in close to the water on the other two sides, giving it a secluded atmosphere. A combination café and store and boat service bulked up to the right of the road, with a couple of log cabins among the pines at the rear. In front were boat-launching ramps, and alongside those, stretching out into the placid blue-black water, was boat moorage—two rows of floating slips connected by walkways. Maybe a dozen boats were tied up, a fourth or fifth of the number that would crowd it at the height of the summer season. A few were small outboard pleasure craft; the rest were houseboats, the most popular kind of boat on the lake because they gave you all the conveniences of a small housekeeping cabin.
I parked in the lot behind the café. It was cool here, windless because of the sheltering peaks and trees. The sky was yellow-dark now, just a few minutes from nightfall; shadows clung to the trees and the far edges of the harbor, where the lake cut away between a pair of promontories. Lights were on in the café building, and nightlights strung on wire cast pale illumination over the boat slips. There weren’t many people around. The only ones I saw were two couples on the aft deck of one of the houseboats—drinking out of tall glasses, talking in mildly sloshed voices, watching night come down.
I skirted the ramps, got onto the floating walkway, and went out toward the boat with the four people on it. None of them paid any attention to me until I came up close to the taffrail and hailed them. Then they all looked at me with a kind of vague disapproval, as if I had interrupted a private communion.
“I’m looking for Frank O’Daniel,” I said. “Would you happen to know which boat is his?”
“End slip,” one of the men said. “The Kokanee.”
“Which way?”
He pointed lakeward with the hand holding his glass. Ice clinked, a sound that seemed to carry in the stillness. It was that kind of night.
“Is he on board, do you know?”
“Haven’t seen him.”
“I saw him,” one of the women said. “About an hour ago, over at the store. He was buying a bottle.”
“I’ll bet you noticed what kind it was, huh, Peg?”
“Dewar’s,” she said. “White Label. A fifth.”
They all thought that was pretty funny. Their laughter rang out among the lengthening shadows, echoing a little before it died.
“He went back to his boat,” the woman, Peg, said to me. “Least, I think he did.”
“Thanks.”
“Welcome,
I’m sure.” She raised her glass. “Happy New Year,” she said.
They all laughed again, and I went around their boat and over onto another walkway. There was only one boat tied up out at the end—a houseboat that looked a little bigger than the others at the moorage. Because of the curve of the shoreline, she was in close to the trees and the rocky promontory that marked the north end of the harbor. The looming pines and the high rock wall threw layers of thick shadow over her.
I walked along to the boat and squinted at the name painted on her vertically flattened stern. Kokanee. I stood for a moment looking her over. Except for size, she wasn’t much different than any of the others: squarish, with big windows and a wood-slatted superstructure painted white and some dark color that would probably be brown; hull painted the same dark color; railed sundeck on top, railed decks fore and aft. Like a small mobile home outfitted with pontoons and set afloat.
All the windows were dark. She was quiet, too, dead-still in the motionless water. There wasn’t anything to hear anywhere except for the half-drunken laughter of the people back at the other houseboat.
Maybe he went out somewhere after all, I thought. But I moved in close to the aft railing and called, “Hello, the Kokanee! You on board, Mr. O’Daniel?”
No response.
I called again, identifying myself. Still no answer. Well, what the hell, I thought. If he wasn’t here, maybe he’d just gone out for a quick supper and he’d be back pretty soon. I had time on my hands and nothing better to do than wait here a while. It was a nice night and a nice setting for a wait.
So I climbed on board and started aft, lakeward, because I could see some deck chairs set out back there. Only I stopped before I got to the chairs. There was a faint smell in the air that made my nostrils twitch—a familiar, acrid smell. Gasoline.
Something made me call O’Daniel’s name again. More silence. No sounds at all on the boat, not even the creak of joints or the mooring ropes; the water was like a sheet of black glass, dappled here and there with moonlight spilling in through the trees.
I went ahead onto the aft deck. The odor was stronger back there—and it shouldn’t have been. You shouldn’t be able to smell gasoline that strongly on board a moored boat . . .
A bad feeling began to move through me, bunching muscles, building unease. Gasoline-powered marine engines and generators could be dangerous; you have to be careful around them. I didn’t know much about boats but I knew that much.
Where the hell was O’Daniel?
I hesitated. Part of me wanted to go on inside, take a look around; part of me wanted to get off this boat in a hurry, away from those gas fumes. I took a couple of steps without really making up my mind, on my way to do one or the other.
A sudden muffled ringing noise started up inside the cabin.
My scalp prickled and I stopped again. The sound continued, still steady and muffled; I couldn’t identify what it was. Was somebody in there or not? Somebody doing something in the dark?
I yelled, “Hey! Hello inside!” Still no response, except for that insistent jangling.
The feeling of unease was acute now; so was the desire to get off this boat. In my mind there was a confused thought of gasoline leakage and bilges and fumes gathering and the danger of a single spark from an electrical switch. I started to run for the rail, to vault over onto the walkway.
Muffled popping sound, then a kind of faint whooshing.
Flash of blinding light, thunderous concussion—
—wild terror—
—moment of blackness—
—and I was in the water, black and bright orange water full of floating things. Thrashing around in the water, gagging, choking, with it cold in my mouth and throat. A roaring in my ears, light and heat beating against me. I went under, fought back up, and then the wildness and the disorientation cleared out of my head and I could think again. I kicked my body around to face into the heat and the glare.
The Kokanee was sheeted with fire, flames reaching up like trembly hands into the black sky. People were running along the shore and the floats. Yelling, too, but it was all a long way off, like hearing something through a wall.
An awareness of pain worked its way into my mind. Burning pain, burns—my face and arms were burned. Men were out on one of the floats now, silhouetted against the glow of the fire, one of them waving his arms and shouting orders to the others; two or three more were extending a long metal gaff out into the water in my direction. I started to swim, hurting, frightened, but functioning all right—not burned too badly to swim all right.
Debris bobbed all around me. I pushed through it toward the gaff. Something struck my cheek, something pliable, and I saw what it was and gagged again and batted it away with a little of the wildness coming back.
It was somebody’s blown-off arm.
CHAPTER TWELVE
They started hammering questions at me as soon as they pulled me out of the water. What happened are you all right where’s Frank O’Daniel was it the fuel tank was there anybody else on board—a babble of words that seemed to rise and fall with the thrumming of the fire. Their faces were surreal masks of light and shadow, like participants in some sort of pagan ceremony. I shook my head at them, pushed their hands away. Stood there dripping: I wasn’t going to fall down.
“Call the sheriff.” The words came out all loose and funny, as if something had been broken or knocked out of kilter in my throat. “Somebody’s been killed.”
Buzz, buzz, thrum and buzz: Who was killed was it Frank God A’mighty I thought I saw something out there looked like an arm . . .
“Call the sheriff, will you? Call the sheriff!”
“Already been done, mister,” somebody said. It was the guy who had been shouting orders. “My wife’s taken care of it. They’re on the way.”
I said, “Okay,” and shoved past him, went away from all of them. I could walk all right, but my knees were wobbly and I took slow, careful steps, like a drunk trying to walk a straight line. In the firelight I could see that my clothing was scorched and waterlogged, hanging on me like strips of peeled skin. My face hurt; so did my hands, my arms. But it wasn’t that intolerable kind of fiery pain you feel when you’ve been badly burned. I touched my cheek: hot and wet and sore, but not raw, not blistered. Lucky. Jesus, I was lucky—that arm out there could have been mine. . . .
There was a boat nearby, a small runabout, probably an outboard, with a tarp stretched over it and tied down. I sat on its gunwale and looked at the Kokanee. Not much left of it now. A floating pyre canted over to one side, lying low in the water, flames shooting through a gaping hole the explosion had ripped in its superstructure. Three guys with buckets were busy scooping water over the board floats down there, to make sure the fire didn’t spread to the rest of the boats. That was what the other guy, the one whose wife had telephoned the sheriff, had been shouting about while I was still in the lake. There wasn’t much else for anybody to do. You couldn’t even hope to put out a fire like that with a bucket brigade.
The take-charge guy came over to where I was sitting, the boozer I’d talked to earlier dogging along behind him. “You’d better come to my cabin,” he said, “get out of those wet clothes, get some salve on your burns.” He sounded pretty calm, as if boats blowing up and people getting killed were commonplace things to him. “I’ll call you a doctor.”
“Who’re you?”
“Tom Decker. I own the facilities here.”
The boozer said, “How could a thing like that happen? How the hell can a boat just blow up like that?”
“If you knew anything about boats, Les,” Decker said mildly, “you wouldn’t have to ask that question.”
“What kind of crack is that? I know plenty about boats.”
“Sure you do.” Decker shifted his gaze to me again. “If you don’t think you can make it under your own steam . . .”
“No, I’m okay. Not that badly hurt.”
He nodded. “But you don’t want to let bu
rns go untreated,” he said. “Come on with me.”
I stood up again, giving the Kokanee another look. It would burn right down to the waterline in another few minutes, I thought. The sheriffs people would probably have to drag for what was left of O‘Daniel’s body. If it was O’Daniel whose arm was out there in the dark water.
I went with Decker, leaving the other guy, Les, to puzzle out the explosion by himself. Decker’s cabin was one of those in back and to one side of the café-and-store, and a slim, dark-haired woman was waiting in the doorway. He introduced her as his wife, Mary or Marie. Inside, they pointed me into the kitchen and Decker went and got some towels and an old bathrobe while she examined my face and arms. When he came back she disappeared, and I took the opportunity to shuck out of my wet clothing and dry off and bundle up in the robe.
Decker said, “Looks like your burns are superficial. But I’m going to call a doctor anyway.”
“Why?”
“You can never tell about burns. I’ve seen enough cases to know that they ought to be looked after right away by a competent medic.”
I studied him a little. He was about forty-five, lean, brown, with a long sad face and eyes that said he had stopped being excited about things a long time ago; eyes that had known pain. I had seen eyes like that before.
“Ex-military?” I asked him. “Vietnam?”
“Yes. I’ve got the look, right?”
“You’ve got the look.”
“You’ve got one too,” he said. “Police officer?”
“Private detective. I’m investigating the death of Frank O’Daniel’s partner, for their insurance company.”
He raised a questioning eyebrow. “Was O’Daniel on board the Kokanee when she blew?”
“Somebody was. He’s the most likely.”
“I read about the fire that killed Randall; O’Daniel talked about it some himself. Now this. Coincidence?”
I didn’t say anything. I was thinking: Two fatal “accidents” involving fire; two partners dying within a week of each other. Coincidence? Not too damned likely.
Decker’s wife came back with a tube of pinkish gunk and began to smooth the stuff over my face and the reddened surface of my arms and hands. It took most of the pain away instantly. Decker went to make another telephone call—presumably the doctor he’d mentioned. Through the cabin window I could see that the fire had died down some already: the orange stain had begun to fade out of the night.
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