by Janet Dawson
“Absolutely,” Perdita said. She handed both of us a mug and picked up her own, gesturing toward the sofa that faced the ocean. “Why wasn’t I notified that he was up for parole? Wasn’t I entitled to give a statement at his hearing?”
“Yes,” I said, even as the officer nodded. “But I can guess why you weren’t contacted. You’ve buried yourself deep up here, with the name change.”
I took a seat at the end of the sofa. Sergeant Sullivan remained standing. Perdita sat down at the other end of the sofa, leaned forward, and shook her head. “The Marin County D.A. knew where to find me.”
“They may have had some personnel changes,” Sullivan said. “Right hand not knowing what the left hand is doing,”
I nodded. “And Emily tells me you’ve done some traveling since she graduated from high school.”
“Yes. I went to Egypt last year. I wanted to see the pyramids before I got too much older. So it’s possible someone tried to contact me and I was gone. And the last few days I’ve been driving all over Northern California with a friend who’s an antique dealer. A buying trip, an excuse to get away. We were gone longer than we planned. But why are you here, Jeri? It’s not only to tell me about Bradfield being out of prison. How did you find out? What’s going on?”
“I got into this matter because of something that happened at the house where Emily lives. Maybe coincidence, maybe not. I didn’t realize until a few days ago that Emily was Melissa Bradfield. Then it all started to make sense.”
“You better back up,” Sullivan said, taking out a notebook. “Start at the beginning.”
I told them everything that had happened since the day Vicki Vernon called to tell me about the plants, and all that I’d learned about the events leading up to that incident.
“Damn it,” Perdita said, scowling, when I’d finished. “Why didn’t Emily tell me any of this?”
“I don’t think she was sure it was her father, not until the lemon tree. As I’ve discovered in my investigation so far, there are several people with reasons to harass Emily’s housemates. All of the people living there have experienced problems.” I took a sip of coffee. “Everything that’s happened has Bradfield’s fingerprints all over it. My guess is that he’s decided to go after every one of us who had anything to do with putting him behind bars. And we both know that you are high on that list.”
Perdita laughed grimly. “Probably the number one spot. If he’s out of prison, I’m sure he’ll come after me.”
“He certainly found Emily,” I said. “I’m not sure how he found Vicki Vernon, but he was paroled to San Diego. That’s where she grew up. Sid’s still at the Oakland Police Department, simple to locate. As for me, I’m in the phone book. It would have been easy for Bradfield to discover that Errol retired and moved to Carmel.”
“So you think this guy Bradfield will head up to Mendocino, once he figures out Ms. Paxton is here?” Sullivan grimaced as he looked up from his note taking. “I don’t think we can provide you with round-the-clock protection. I’ll have to check with my boss.”
“I’ll be fine,” Perdita assured us, a determined look on her face. “I’ve got the dog. And a gun I know how to use. I’ll call my friend in Fort Bragg. He’ll come and stay with me.”
“I’d prefer to catch Bradfield before it gets to that point,” I said.
Sullivan seconded me. “So would I.”
Thirty-one
WHEN SERGEANT SULLIVAN LEFT, PERDITA called Emily in Berkeley. After a long talk with her niece, she offered me crackers, cheese, and fruit, washed down with a mellow zinfandel from an Anderson Valley winery. We sat at the small dining room table, where a narrow window looked out on the stand of pine trees at the back of her property. On the slope above I saw the back of one of the Mendocino school buildings.
“My friend’s coming down from Fort Bragg later, for a late lunch. I don’t cook much,” she said. “I never did. Emily was the chef around here.”
“Why ‘lost’?” I asked, giving voice to the question I’d had since I found out she named her gallery Perdu, and herself Perdita. “Emily Austen I can understand. She’s an English major, so she chose two of her favorite authors. Lost... well, lost I can guess.”
A smile softened Perdita’s face. “Emily Dickinson and Jane Austen. Those two helped a very troubled, frightened little girl escape the demons. I told you she loved it here. She needed the small-town atmosphere, a place where you know all your neighbors. I worried about her going to Cal, with that big campus and the crazy Berkeley scene. I’m glad she moved into that house. Emily likes the people there. I met them last December, right before Emily and I went to Hawaii over the holidays. I like Vicki especially. I’m pleased she and Emily have gotten to be close friends. Emily needs that.”
I nodded. “They seem to have meshed.”
“Why lost, you ask,” Perdita continued. “It’s simple. I lost the life I had, the life I loved. I miss that life, terribly.” She paused as she raised her wineglass to her lips. “I miss having season tickets to the American Conservatory Theatre, the ballet, the symphony, the opera. I miss the museums and the galleries.”
“But Mendocino has the arts,” I said. “In smaller measure, I grant you. Besides...” I waved my hand in the direction of the big front window and the sweeping view of the ocean. “There’s the land and the ocean.”
“Oh, I know, Mendocino’s one of the most beautiful spots on earth. There’s something about the land up here that draws one. And I know I can go over to the art center and see a play.” She shook her head, her words wry. “But it’s not the same. It’s not for me. I knew that the first time I saw this place, back before the tourists and the inns and the restaurants. The artists had just started moving up here when I met Mike Paxton, and he brought me up here to meet his family. Most of those buildings on Main Street were boarded up or falling down.”
She sipped her wine again, remembering. “Mike’s dad hadn’t worked in months. He’d been laid off from the lumber mill up in Fort Bragg. His mother took in washing to make ends meet. Mike didn’t want to live here either, not permanently, anyway. He’d gone to school to be an architect. There aren’t many jobs up here for people in that field. He found a job in San Francisco and later we bought the house in Mill Valley. But he felt the pull of this Mendocino coast. I suppose someone who is born here always does.”
“Did you come up here often?”
“Oh, yes. On weekends, holidays, to be with Mike’s family. They were rather close-knit, while the parents were alive. They thought I was somewhat avant-garde because I kept my birth name, before it was fashionable.” She laughed. “Mike’s sisters married men who lived in other states, then his father and mother died and the house was sold. We still came up here frequently, staying in one of the inns, or with friends. I’ve always been interested in the art scene up here. I’d look for new artists, buy things for my gallery in Mill Valley. We’d just bought the property and Mike was designing this house when he had his heart attack. I put those plans away until I left the Bay Area. Then I built the house, just the way he designed it. For two people. Only it was me and Emily instead of me and Mike.”
She pushed away her chair and carried her plate to the kitchen, returning with the bottle of wine. She offered it to me, but I declined. Then she poured herself another glass.
“I’m still angry,” she said. “About losing my life. It was something I had to do for Emily and I understood that. But I owned that gallery for a long time. It filled a space when Mike died. My gallery was well known, respected. I had the contacts, the connections. That life was important to me. It represented a time when control, autonomy, held a place in my world. I pulled my own strings.”
She raised the glass to her lips and drank, a bitter expression on her face, as though the wine had gone bad. “But all that was lost when Richard Bradfield murdered my sister.”
“You have a gallery here,” I reminded her.
“Yes.” She put down the wineglass. “An
d I need to go there, before I consume the rest of this wine and get even more maudlin. Did you drive over here?”
I shook my head. “I left my car parked over on Ukiah Street. After I went to the gallery this morning, I walked. I’ve prowled every path on the headlands, waiting for you to show up. I spent last night at the Joshua Grindle Inn and planned to drive back this afternoon.”
She glanced at her watch. “Wait a bit and have lunch with me and my friend. I’d like you to meet him.” She stood up and headed for the kitchen.
“Sounds good to me,” I agreed. “Let me make a few phone calls first.”
I checked in with Wayne Hobart, Rita Lydecker, and Joe Kelso, letting them know I’d located Perdita and warned her that Bradfield was probably looking for her. Then Perdita, the dog, and I piled into the Volvo and headed for the village. Lee looked relieved when Perdita and I entered the gallery, carrying cardboard cartons that had been in the trunk of her Volvo. Molly was at our heels and she trotted through the gallery, straight for Perdita’s office.
“I’m so glad you’re back,” Lee said. “Emily is looking for you, this woman is looking for you.”
“It’s all right, Lee. I’ve talked with Emily. You’ve met Jeri Howard.” Perdita set her carton on the floor and I did the same.
“There are some messages on your desk. What have you got there?” Lee indicated the box.
“I found the most marvelous pottery,” Perdita said, tossing words over her shoulder as she opened the door behind the counter that led to her office. “Up in Dos Rios, of all places. It is out in the middle of absolutely nowhere, but this woman’s work is terrific. I’ve got a couple of small pieces with me, and I took some photographs of the rest. I asked her to put together a portfolio.” Perdita sat down at her desk and picked up several small yellow sheets torn from a message pad.
Lee opened the box and took out an elongated vase fired in dark blues and grays, with touches of red and rust on its length. She made appropriate noises that indicated she agreed with Perdita’s assessment of the potter’s work and set the vase on the glass counter. The second piece was squat, in the same general colors.
After Perdita had made her phone calls, she and Lee hauled out the gallery’s record book and entered information concerning the potter and the two pieces Perdita had bought. “I’ll price them later this afternoon,” Perdita said, consulting her watch. “Tom should be here in about twenty minutes. Come on, Jeri, let’s take Molly for a walk before he gets here.”
Molly keyed on the word “walk” and headed for the door of the gallery, waiting expectantly for Perdita to open it. Perdita snapped a well-worn leather lead onto the dog’s collar and we set out along Main Street, heading toward the ocean. The afternoon sun blurred as it slipped behind the layer of fog hugging the Pacific. Once we’d left the pavement for the path leading onto the headlands, Perdita released the dog. Molly woofed and raced through the grass, pursuing something only she could see.
“Tom’s your friend from Fort Bragg,” I said. “Does he know?”
“That I’m Cordelia Ramsey, a woman with a past?” Perdita laughed, then shook her head. “No. I didn’t burden him with my baggage. I saw no need to give him the details. To him, I’m Perdita, a widow, raising a niece, running an art gallery. That’s all he needs for now.”
As we caught up with the Airedale, Perdita told me more about Tom Jeffries. He was a widower, a retired businessman from the Los Angeles basin who’d moved to the north coast last year to open an antique store in Fort Bragg. In addition to old furniture, Jeffries was interested in art. He and Perdita met last fall at a Mendocino Arts Center reception.
Molly romped toward us, then sprawled in the dust path, panting. “Had enough, old girl?” Perdita asked. The dog barked and got to her feet. Perdita snapped the lead onto Molly’s collar. We turned back and headed toward Main Street.
“I was thinking of Bradfield’s assistant,” Perdita said.
“So was I.” When I’d reviewed the Seville Agency file a few days ago it occurred to me that the employee who’d provided Bradfield’s alibi for the night of the murder might be in danger. And not because the alibi was ever shaken.
A bird broke cover in the bushes ahead and Molly barked furiously, straining at her lead. “... lying, of course,” Perdita said, partly drowned out by the clamor. “Bradfield killed Stephanie, there’s no doubt in my mind. But that testimony about the penny stock scam...”
“Could earn a spot on Bradfield’s enemies list,” I finished. The D.A. in the fraud trial had elicited some damaging information from Bradfield’s loyal assistant.
As we walked along the sidewalk toward the Mendocino Hotel, a boxy vehicle that turned out to be a Land Rover angled into a parking spot next to Perdita’s Volvo. A man got out, tall, lean, and silver-haired, wearing a red flannel shirt under a corduroy jacket, blue jeans, and boots. He looked comfortable, sure of himself, equally at home in a business suit or this more informal attire.
Molly barked once and Perdita unclasped the lead. The dog ran to greet the man, her stubby Airedale tail wagging with affection. He leaned down and ruffled the dog’s ears, then straightened as Perdita and I approached. When Perdita stopped beside him, he leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. Then he looked at me with brown eyes in a tanned, lined face and stuck out his hand. “Tom Jeffries,” he said. “Call me Tom.”
“Jeri Howard.” I shook his hand. He was in his late fifties, I guessed, a little early for retirement. But maybe he’d wanted to retire while he was still vigorous enough to enjoy it.
“You two hungry?” Jeffries asked.
“Ravenous.” Perdita put her arm around his waist. “Let’s stash Molly at the gallery and head up to the Bay View Café.”
“Good thing you live in a town with restaurants,” he told her affectionately. “Otherwise you might have to learn to cook.”
“Perish the thought.” Perdita gave a mock shudder as she led the way toward the courtyard. I followed, feeling like the third wheel on a two-wheel bicycle, my mind already racing ahead as I thought of what I needed to do when I got back to the Bay Area,
Thirty-two
“HAVE YOU FOUND OUT ANY DETAILS ABOUT Bradfield’s parole?” I asked Wayne.
It was early Tuesday morning. I’d returned from Mendocino the night before, checking in with Emily and the other Garber Street residents before going home to my empty apartment in Oakland. They’d had no phone calls for several days, which alarmed Emily. She was quite sure her father had gone up to Mendocino after her aunt. I thought it more likely that the caller—who was probably Bradfield—was letting all of us stew before he made his next move.
When he’d answered the phone, Wayne reported that Sid was in good spirits, despite the internal affairs investigation. The media interest had cooled because the reporters’ attention had been drawn to a nasty political battle between the Port of Oakland and the City Council. Macauley’s parents had backed off their accusations once the news about their son’s bomb escapade in high school had come to light. And yes, Ted Macauley was still missing.
Now Wayne gave me the details he’d gleaned from a long talk with a friend in the San Diego Police Department. “Bradfield cleaned offices during his parole. He worked for a company down there, name of San Diego County Cleaners. They contract janitorial services with various businesses. When I talked with Bradfield’s parole officer last Friday, he told me the guy stayed out of trouble, reported in regular. But as soon as he finished his year, he quit the job. Didn’t even give notice, according to his supervisor. Drew his last paycheck, closed his bank account, left town. He’d been living in a studio apartment in North Park. Landlord says Bradfield just cleared out with no warning. Left the keys in his mailbox and didn’t collect his deposit.”
“Sounds like he had someplace he needed to be,” I said. Was that location the Bay Area? So Bradfield could start harassing the inhabitants of the Garber Street house?
“Guess so,” Wayne said. “He’s a p
rivate citizen now, so he doesn’t have to check in with anyone. The bottom line, nobody knows where Richard Bradfield is.”
“What about transportation? Surely he must have had a car.”
“He did in December but he doesn’t anymore, at least not the same one. My pal in San Diego ran a check on the vehicle. It turned up in a used car lot down in Garden Grove. Been there since January. Say, Jeri, my friend faxed me a picture of Bradfield. It’s not the greatest, but it’s fairly recent. Want me to fax it to you?”
“Thanks, Wayne. I’d like to know what he looks like now, in case I come face-to-face with the guy.” I was ready to hang up the phone, then something else that had been at the back of my mind reasserted itself. “What about Sam Kacherian, Bradfield’s partner in the stock scam? I know he went to prison, just like Bradfield. He must be out too. Maybe he could give us a line on Bradfield.”
“Good thought,” Wayne said. “I’ll see what I can find out.”
I rang off. A moment later the fax machine began humming. I leaned over to watch the telecopied photograph of Richard Bradfield take shape. The black and white fax couldn’t tell me if his brown hair was showing some gray, but it was a fair likeness of the man I remembered. The square face showed some lines that hadn’t been there before, and there were bags under the eyes and a hint of a jowl at the jawline.
I used my fax machine to make several copies of Bradfield’s image, then I logged onto my computer. I dialed up a database on California corporations. San Diego County Cleaners was located in downtown San Diego, but I discovered that it in turn was owned by a company called Belston Enterprises. In fact, Belston, which was headquartered in Santa Ana, down in Orange County, owned a number of similar companies all over Southern California.