There's Something in a Sunday

by Marcia Muller

  The young woman-a sandy-haired, snub-nosed teenager-looked expectantly at me. I gave her Alissa’s card and asked to speak with her boss. She compressed her lips nervously-probably because of Wilkonson’s earlier visit from the sheriff’s men-and took the card back to him.

  I looked around the trailer. I’d been envisioning something along the lines of a shed with tack hanging on the wall, and it surprised me to find myself in an office that looked like the business end of a small manufacturing company. Of course, I thought, that was what a cattle ranch was: small manufacturing-in this case, of steaks and roasts and hamburger.

  The teenager consulted with Wilkonson. He looked at the card, shook his head, and gestured at the phone receiver. She came back and said Mr. Wilkonson would be quite a while. Did I want to make an appointment? No, I replied, I’d driven all the way from San Francisco, and it would be inconvenient to come back. Would she tell him I only needed a few minutes of his time? She relayed that to him, and he talked for half a minute longer and then hung up.

  Wilkonson stood, tucking his red patchwork cowboy shirt into his faded jeans. He moved in an easy, loose-jointed manner, his posture more relaxed than it had been when he was prowling around San Francisco. I felt that strange smugness that always comes when I meet face-to-face a person I’ve tailed. I knew a good deal about Wilkonson, and the covert knowledge gave me a feeling of power.

  Before he spoke to me, he said to the secretary, “Nearly five, isn’t it, Ginny? Why don’t you pack it in for the night?”

  Ginny glanced at me, as if she were afraid to leave her boss in my clutches. Then she looked at her watch-it was only around four-thirty-and pleasure at the early dismissal won out over her protective instincts. “Thanks, Frank,” she said, and went to straighten her desk.

  Wilkonson looked down at the card in his hand. “Miss Hernandez, is it? Allstate?”

  “Yes. Mr. Wilkonson?” I held out my hand.

  He took it limply, as if he weren’t accustomed to shaking hands-or at least to shaking hands with women. “What can I do for you?” he asked. His accent held more of a Texas twang than his wife’s.

  I’m investigating a hit-and-run accident,” I began, and went on with my well-practiced spiel. Wilkonson listened, glancing nervously at the secretary. When I finished, he waited until she’d left the trailer before speaking.

  “Your witness copied down my license plate number?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “What time on Sunday did this happen?”

  “Around five.”

  “I see.” He looked down and began straightening a stack of printouts in the IN basket of the desk next to him. When his eyes met mine again, they were genuinely puzzled. “I was there at the Wharf, Miss Hernandez. I can’t deny that. And I do admit making a U-turn. But I could swear I never hit another car-I’d have felt the impact.”

  “The witness said you appeared to be angry. Perhaps you just didn’t notice…?”

  “No,” he said firmly, “I’m sure I’d have noticed.” Now I sensed tension rising in him, reined in, as it had been on Sunday.

  “Well,” I said, “there’s a possibility the witness could be wrong. He might have just thought you hit the other car, since there were no green paint scrapings on it. My theory is that it was hit earlier, by a white vehicle, and your…performance was what attracted his attention. I’ll have to look deeper into this than I expected, I guess.”

  What I’d said didn’t seem to ease his mind. He asked, “Look, how much would it cost to repair your policyholder’s car?”

  I chose a figure I thought would seem high to him. “At least eight hundred dollars.”

  His lips twitched but he said, “I’ll be glad to pay for it. In fact, I’ll give you a check right now.”

  “Don’t you want to contact your own insurance carrier? They’d pay-”

  “No. I don’t want my rates raised…. Besides, it’s a group policy for employees here at the ranch, and something like this-hitting a car in a fit of temper and then driving off-would make me look bad.”

  “I understand. And believe me, Mr. Wilkonson, I can understand how the accident could have happened; it’s a zoo at the Wharf on Sundays. I suppose you and the family were up there for an outing?”

  “Uh, yes.”

  “Well, I know how those family outings can be: the kids are whining because you won’t let them go to the Wax Museum; the wife’s stopped and used the MasterCard in every store in Ghirardelli Square; you want a beer, but everyplace is too expensive and crowded; the panhandlers and street merchants…. Oh yes, I know what you were going through.”

  “That’s exactly right. I hate San Francisco, anyway. Never go there if I can help it.”

  “Is that right?”

  “It sure is. You want a check now to cover the damages?”

  “Are you absolutely certain you don’t want me to look into this any further? After all, you may not have been at fault.”

  “No, I’d just as soon have the matter dropped. You know how it is.”

  I certainly did. “Well, then, I’ll file my report, and someone from the claims department will be in touch with you. I don’t need any money now.”

  “Thanks, Miss Hernandez. You’ve been real understanding.” His words were gracious, but I could feel anger just below the surface. It wasn’t necessarily directed at me, but as I’d watched this man, I’d forged enough of an empathy with him that I knew he handled his anger in an inappropriate and scatter-gun fashion. I thanked him for his cooperation and got out of there quickly.

  As I reached my car, the wisdom of that decision was confirmed. From the trailer came a crash and a shattering, as if Wilkonson had heaved something against one of the louvered windows.

  ELEVEN

  I drove slowly up the valley, considering what I’d found out at Burning Oak Ranch. Frank Wilkonson was seriously upset about something-or perhaps obsessed would be a better word. He’d been willing to part with eight hundred dollars in order not to call further attention to his Sunday in San Francisco; he’d twice quarreled with his employer’s son; he’d become distanced from his wife. And according to her, he’d been in the same state at some time during the previous year.

  Exactly how had Jane Wilkonson put it? “He got that way last year, around the same time…” Now I wished I’d pressed her about it.

  I wasn’t worried about Jane relating our conversation to her husband. Given what she’d told me of the marriage, she’d wait to see if Frank would mention my visit to the ranch offices. And he certainly wouldn’t-not after he’d been so eager to have the purported insurance investigation dropped. When Jane realized he wasn’t going to bring the subject up, she would merely store the knowledge of our talk with all the other important things that went unsaid in their household.

  It was now a little after five, and I supposed I should be heading back to San Francisco, so I bypassed Walt’s Tavern in Tres Pinos, where I’d planned to stop for a beer. But by the time I got to Hollister I knew I wasn’t returning to the city that night; I had no real reason to, no plans for the weekend, no obligations. Where Route 25 turned northwest toward Highway 101, I saw a Best Western motel called the San Benito Inn. I executed a sudden right turn-enraging the driver of the pickup behind me-drove to the office, and took a room.

  Time to think about what you’re doing, I told myself.

  Fortunately I always keep a bag packed with toilet articles, cosmetics, and a couple of changes of clothes in the car-in case a job unexpectedly takes me out of town and keeps me there for a while. I carried it up to the second-floor room and dumped it on the luggage rack. Then I lay down on the bed and stared at the rough-plastered ceiling.

  I’d come to Hollister because I’d sensed Rudy Goldring’s reasons for having me tail Frank Wilkonson had more of a connection with his death than Ben Gallagher and the SFPD wanted to believe. I’d thought if I found out more about Wilkonson, I might uncover those reasons. But what I’d uncovered were more free-floa
ting facts and innuendoes. Taken apart, none of them meant anything. Taken together, they merely increased my confusion. I needed to find out even more.

  Leave that for a minute, I told myself. You’re avoiding the real issue-why you’re bothering with this at all.

  I had no client, not anymore. My obligation to Rudy Goldring had ended with his death. All Souls still had a responsibility to him because his attorney would probably have been named executor of his estate. But that had nothing to do with me or my job. So why was I acting as if this were an ongoing investigation?

  Boredom, because lately I’d had too much time on my hands? Curiosity, because I don’t like loose ends? Commitment to seeing the truth come out, because I’m just made that way?

  When you become involved in a murder case, I reminded myself, the best course of action is to turn it over to the police and let them handle it. In fact, that’s not just the best course of action-it’s the only legal one.

  But I’d never been good at observing the technicalities, or avoiding unnecessary risks. And I was bored. I did have too much time on my hands. I was curious, and those loose ends were bugging the hell out of me. Besides, I’ve always had this somewhat naïve-and probably abnormal-preoccupation with the truth.

  I sat up, reached for the phone, and direct-dialed Alissa Hernandez’s office in San Francisco. The person who answered her extension said she’d gone for the day. I tried her home; her machine said to leave my name and number and she’d get back to me. I didn’t want her to have to pay for a long-distance call, so I simply left my name and told the machine I’d try again later. Then I called All Souls.

  Jack Stuart wasn’t there, but surprisingly, Rae still was. Her voice sounded weary when she answered, but she brightened when she heard who it was. “Hey,” she said, “I located the guy on that skip-trace.”

  “Great, congratulations!”

  “The report’s on your desk, and I’ve notified the client. Where are you?”

  “Hollister.”

  “Near San Jose? What’re you doing there?”

  “Following up on something. Look, I have a special project for you. It’s not much of one, but it’ll be a big help to me.”

  There was a pause-she was probably thinking of getting home to Doug. Then she said gamely, “Okay, sure.”

  “I’m trying to reach Alissa Hernandez at Allstate.” I gave her both of Alissa’s numbers, since she was in and out of her office at as many strange times as I was. “Keep trying her for me. Ask her to check the computer for auto policies on Frank Wilkonson”-I spelled it and gave her the Hollister P.O. box- “or Burning Oak Ranch, same address. I want to know if Wilkonson has his own coverage or if it’s under a group policy for the ranch. Ask her to pull all the particulars within the last, say, two years. Got that?”

  “Just a second.” I pictured Rae, hunched over the beat-up desk in my old office, writing down the details. “Anything else?”

  “Try to track down Jack Stuart. I want to know about a will for one of his clients, Rudolf Goldring. Ask him if it’s been entered into probate, and if so, what’s in it.”

  “Okay. I think he may be down at the Remedy with Hank.”

  That surprised me; since his marriage, Hank’s visits to the Remedy had been infrequent. More trouble at home? More drunken commiserating with Jack? “There’s another thing,” I said, “but it’s a personal favor.”

  “No problem.”

  “Thanks. Would you call this number” –I recited it –“and ask whoever answers to stick some food for my cat on the back deck.”

  “Your neighbors, huh? What if there’s nobody home?”

  “There will be.” The Curleys next door were a large, boisterous family, with big hearts-especially when it came to neighbors and cats.

  “When are you coming back?” Rae’s voice was a shade wistful, as if she could do with some commiserating at the Remedy, too.

  “Soon. Tomorrow, probably.” Suddenly I wished she were here, so we could kick around the things I’d found out over a few drinks. I read off the phone number of the motel, told her I’d be there until noon the next day, in case she got hold of Alissa or Jack, and hung up.

  Then I said aloud, “McCone, what the hell are you doing?”

  “Shut up,” I replied.

  Reflecting on how talking to oneself is a sign of creeping middle age, I got up and went to freshen my hair and makeup. I wanted to look presentable when I arrived at Walt’s Tavern in Tres Pinos, for a couple of drinks and perhaps some gossip about the area residents.

  Walt’s was a typical country tavern, with none of the frills that would have made it attractive to tourists en route to or from the Pinnacles. A number of work-soiled pickups were parked out front. When I stepped inside I found a barroom with a wood floor, a mixed and mostly unmatched collection of tables and chairs, and moldy-looking stuffed animal heads on the dingy beige walls. The smoke was thick, the music on the jukebox country, and the decibel level of the voices high.

  Most of the tables were taken, and some of the people at them were eating food from varicolored plastic baskets; what was in the baskets had been fried beyond recognition, but I guessed it was mainly chicken, since a sign behind the bar proclaimed it the specialty of the house. As I stood scanning the room, I became aware that people-mostly men-were giving me appraising glances. Any stranger, particularly a woman alone, was liable to attract attention in such a place.

  As I started for the bar, a fellow in a Stetson had said, “Buy you a drink, honey?”

  “No, thanks,” I replied and kept going.

  “What’sa matter, honey? Too good for a cowhand?”

  I stopped, turned, and said, “No. And no, thanks,” more firmly. The look I gave him quieted him-and warned his companions to leave me alone.

  I sandwiched myself on a stool at the bar between a trio of middle-aged men with weather-toughened faces who were rolling dice and a young fellow with jug ears who was telling two women who looked like cowgirls about his marital problems. Although the back-bar was laden with liquor bottles, only the more common varieties looked to have been poured from within recent memory; the exotic types, such as a two-foot cone of Galliano, seemed to have been purchased for their decorative value, and were layered with grime. I thought fondly of a cool glass of white wine until I spotted a jug of a particularly vile supermarket brand. When the bartender-the same man I’d seen leaning against the porch pillar earlier-finally got around to me, I asked for a Bud. I suspected it was the kind of place where you didn’t get a glass unless you requested it-and I was right.

  When he set the bottle in front of me, the bartender’s eyes flickered in recognition. I smiled, about to speak, but a great roar of laughter went up from the dice players, and one of them hollered for another round. The man picked up my money and went to serve them, and I sipped my beer and relaxed, waiting to hear something interesting.

  “…and so she says to me, ‘Get outta the apartment.’ And I say, ‘Where the hell do you think I’m gonna sleep?’ And she goes, ‘I don’t give a rat’s ass. Bunk in with the other cowboys out to the ranch.’ And I go…”

  The jug-eared fellow had his problems, all right, but I tuned them out and concentrated on the men on my other side.

  They were rolling dice again, the leather cup smashing down on the well worn surface of the bar. I glanced over there and saw they were drinking shots of whiskey and beer chasers. Although their red faces and loud camaraderie said they’d been at it for some time, I sensed they were practiced drinkers, the kind who take themselves home with just so many drinks and no more under their belts. Their conversation was mainly about the Forty-niners’ performance the previous Sunday, and after a while I tuned them out, too.

  At the end of the bar, around the corner from the dice players, was a sort of takeout counter. From time to time people would come in and the bartender would deliver sacks to them, which I assumed contained the house special. The chicken couldn’t be all that bad if it was so popul
ar, and I was trying to decide whether to order some and move to a table where I could better mingle with the clientele, when a sheriff’s deputy came in. as he went up to the takeout counter and signaled to the bartender, I realized a silence had fallen among the dice players.

  After a moment one of them said to the deputy, “How you doing Larry?”

  “Can’t complain.”

  “Buy you a beer?”

  “Thanks, but I’m on duty.”

  “Heard you were on duty down to the Burning O the other day.”

  “You heard right.”

  “Something about Wilkonson, wasn’t it? And a murder up in San Francisco?”

  “Now, you know I can’t be talking about department business.”

  “Come on, Larry, fill us in.”

  The bartender approached with an extra large sack. The deputy took it, nodding thanks. To the dice players, he said, “Nothing to fill you in on. Just routine, that’s all. And if I don’t get back to the substation with this”-he motioned with the sack- “they’ll have my tail.”

  In silence the dice players watched him leave. I was aware of a hush at the nearby tables. Even the bartender stood still for a few seconds. Then it was as if someone had flicked a switch, and everything started up again.

  The first words from the dice players that caught my attention were “Just what they need-more trouble down at the Burning O.” I leaned forward, my elbow on the bar, slipping my hand under my hair and cupping my ear in a way that looked like I was merely resting my head.

  “…Shit, man, he’ll make himself crazy. The booze isn’t going to ease it, not the way he’s going at it.”

  Was it Wilkonson they were talking about? Jane had said nothing about him drinking.

  “You’ve got to admit, though-young Harlan’s picking up the slack.”