Where Echoes Live

by Marcia Muller

  “In what way?”

  “Well, consider how he operates, even within the framework of environmentalism. He’s … how can I describe it? Are you familiar with Earth First!?”

  I nodded. Earth First! was an organization that relied on direct confrontational tactics—some called them “eco-terrorism”—to get their point across. While those on the radical end of the spectrum saw little wrong with removing survey markers from construction sites or sabotaging oil-drilling equipment, few condoned such practices as spiking trees—inserting hidden nails into forest trees so that chain saws would be shattered and the flying steel would injure or even kill loggers. I’d seen a news item around the time of Earth Day reporting that Earth First! had renounced the tactic, but with my usual cynicism I had wondered what they’d renounced it in favor of. And later reports of an explosion that injured two of their leaders and was suspected of being triggered by a device of their own manufacture had led me to assume my cynical suspicions were justified.

  “Is Hy involved with them?” I asked.

  “No, he’s too much of a maverick to ally himself with any group. The only reason he’s on the board of the Friends and cooperating with the Coalition is because of the connection with the Spaulding Foundation. And I doubt he’d have anything to do with the foundation if he didn’t feel obligated because of Julie’s will. But Hy’s like the Earth Firsters in a way: a genuine crazy man who’ll go up against anybody in any way in order to make them listen.”

  “A crusader like you, huh?”

  “Much worse; Hy doesn’t give a hoot for the law. And he’s not afraid of anything—including cops and sheriffs’ deputies with clubs and riot guns. When the campaign to save Tufa Lake was at its hottest, he did plenty of time in various jails. As soon as he served one sentence, he’d get into trouble and end up behind bars again. He claims he was influenced by Martin Luther King and Gandhi; I’d add the kamikaze pilots and Genghis Khan to the list.”

  “Was his wife still alive while this was going on?”

  “Some of it, but he got much worse after she died. I think she was a steadying influence on him. Rose Wittington says Julie was confined to a wheelchair most of her life, but that didn’t stop her from doing what she wanted. She traveled around the state helping out different groups with both personal efforts and monetary donations; when she came to Tufa Lake she decided it was where she wanted to settle. She was a fighter, like Hy: when the Friends picketed the water department in L.A. she was there. The same for the sit-ins in Sacramento. But Julie was always in control. For a long time after she died, Hy wasn’t.”

  “And now?”

  She shrugged. “He’s better, but sometimes I think it’s only his responsibilities to the foundation that keep him from going off and … well, doing God knows what.”

  “So Julie Spaulding made him director of her foundation for a very good reason.”

  “I guess she did.”

  “Has he had any confrontations with Transpacific?”

  “No, he went to the mine site only once, on a public relations tour the corporation gave for concerned individuals. Otherwise Transpacific has kept a very low profile and refused to enter into a dialogue with the environmentalists. Until they do, there’s nothing to confront.”

  “And then?”

  “That’s a question I don’t want to find out the answer to.”

  “I wonder what Hy and the Nickles woman were arguing about this afternoon.”

  Anne-Marie looked at her watch, then pushed back her chair. “We’re supposed to meet him and Ned at the trailer right about now. Why don’t you ask him?”

  Three

  Ten o’clock. I stifled a yawn and tried to focus on what Ned Sanderman was saying.

  We’d been sitting on the uncomfortable office chairs in the rented trailer for close to three hours, and he’d talked almost nonstop the whole time. Right now the subject was how much Transpacific stood to lose should the environmentalists find a way to block the issuing of the final mining permits. The cost of the land, plus capital improvements, plus the cost of whatever core sampling had been done up to that point, Ripinsky said with an edge of annoyance. No, Sanderman objected, there were also administrative costs, legal expenses, plus loss of potential profit. The worth of a gold mine, he said, was equal to the value of the ore, less the aforementioned expenses. He then backed up this statement with examples that he punched out on his personal computer. (“It goes everywhere I go,” he’d informed me—not that I’d asked.) Ned Sanderman was one of the new breed of environmentalists: logical, unemotional, equipped with the latest technology, and with an eye for the bottom line. He’d told me that, too, plus most of his life story, in the first ten minutes after we’d been introduced. I now knew more about Ned Sanderman than I did about some of my own relatives, the primary fact being that he was boring.

  Slender and short, with a clean-shaven baby face and blond hair that was styled to cover a bald spot, he’d surprised me when he revealed that he was forty-six. “I had my mid-life crisis seven years ago at thirty-nine,” he said. “I was a computer engineer in Silicon Valley. Then one day I woke up to the fact that there was more to life than building a stock portfolio and acquiring expensive toys. I’d made it in my chosen career, and I needed more meaning in my life. I wanted to be connected in a basic way to the end results of my work.”

  “So he ran away and joined the environmentalists the way some people join the circus,” Anne-Marie commented.

  Sanderman gave her a puzzled look. He was essentially humorless, and while he suspected the remark was supposed to be funny, it was obvious he didn’t know what to make of it. Also obvious was his intense self-absorption. The only question he’d asked me was how I liked the cabin at the lodge. When I said it seemed fine, he disdainfully cataloged the defects of his, especially of its kitchen. “I wouldn’t so much as boil water in there. God knows what germs are lying in wait,” he complained.

  Now he’d somehow gotten off on the heap leach cyanide process and was droning on about the dangers it posed to the environment. The details—poisoned fish, birds, and other wildlife, to say nothing of undrinkable water and unbreath-able air—were dismaying, but we’d been over this before. It was at least the dozenth tangent he’d lurched off onto. The first five or six times Anne-Marie and Ripinsky had tried to steer him back to the subject of our meeting. Finally they’d given up.

  I glanced at Anne-Marie; her eyes had glazed over. Ripinsky sat tilted back in his chair, feet on one of the cheap metal desks, staring up at the ceiling; from the expression on his face, I gathered that his mind was somewhere in the outer layers of the stratosphere. I shifted uncomfortably on the chair and yawned discreetly.

  Ripinsky’s gaze shifted from the ceiling to me. He grinned, winked, and took his feet off the desk. Maybe his thoughts hadn’t been hovering miles above earth after all.

  “Time’s up, Ned,” he said. “I’ve got something to brief everybody on.”

  Sanderman looked flustered, then frowned. He opened his mouth, closed it, and folded his arms. I sensed Ripinsky had interrupted him many times before—and even more abruptly.

  Ripinsky went on, “When you came in”—he nodded to Anne-Marie—“you asked about a visit the Tiger Lily paid me this afternoon. I didn’t get a chance to go into it, because right away Ned here started presenting his credentials.”

  Sanderman flushed but didn’t say anything.

  “Lily and I didn’t have a real amiable conversation,” Ripinsky continued. “In fact, she ended up getting pretty steamed at me. That’s nothing new; woman’s had it in for me ever since I rebuffed her advances after Julie died. But that’s another story entirely, and not terribly interesting. What is interesting is the story she had to tell this afternoon.”

  “And?” Sanderman asked irritably.

  “Seems Lily’s been doing some exploring up on the mesa. She claims she noticed it had been quiet there for weeks now—too quiet for them to be taking core samples—so
she decided to check it out. And guess what? There’s no survey crew, no geologists, just a skeleton crew of security people. And no drill rigs, hydraulic shovels, or trucks, either.”

  “So they’re done with the sampling.”

  Ripinsky shook his head. “Can’t be. They only just started.”

  “Then the samples showed there wasn’t enough ore to make further tests worthwhile. In that case—”

  “No way. When I took their little public relations tour right after they announced they’d acquired the property, their supervising geologist told me they were dead sure that with modern mining capabilities they could take a minimum of half a million ounces of gold out of that mesa over the life of the mine. That’s twenty million dollars gross at today’s prices.”

  Sanderman got up and went to his computer. He punched a few figures up onto the screen and said, “That’s right.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ve got a computer, too—it’s called a brain. Anyway, Lily tried to find out from the guards what was happening, but she didn’t get anywhere. Even tried to bribe one of them with … her not inconsiderable charms, but it was no go.”

  We all were silent for a minute. Then I asked, “Why did she get so angry with you?”

  He grinned and ran a finger over his droopy mustache. “Lily’s a bit paranoid, and something of a racist, too. Seems a couple of the guards are Chinese. She started in on her Yellow Peril theory—evil Orientals taking over the county. Talk like that is just plain stupid, and I told her so. And that set her off.”

  “What was it she called you—a tree hugger?”

  “Among other things. Lily hates environmentalists.”

  “I’d think she’d be on your side.”

  “Not the Tiger Lily. The only thing she wants from the environment is gold. Lacking that, she’ll take venison, trout, and firewood. But she doesn’t give a damn about nature in its unspoiled state or preserving Promiseville. If she had her way she’d tear down every historic building in the valley except the house she’s squatting in and burn them in her wood stove.”

  “Then why did she come to you?”

  He shrugged. “Because she didn’t know anybody else to turn to. And underneath all that bravado, she’s a little scared.”

  Anne-Marie was tapping on her desk with a pencil. “What we need is more information about Transpacific.”

  I asked, “Where are they headquartered?”

  “The city.”

  “Then I’ll check up on them when I get back there.”

  “Good.”

  Ripinsky stood, stretched his tall, lean body. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but it’s been a long day. And McCone’s had quite a drive; she probably wants to turn in.”

  Gratefully I stood, and Anne-Marie followed suit. We made plans to meet back there in the morning, so I could outline my plan of action—assuming I’d developed one by then—and Ripinsky, Anne-Marie, and I left together.

  As I drove away, I could see Sanderman through the still-lighted window of the trailer; he was once again playing with his computer.

  I followed Anne-Marie’s Subaru to the lodge and pulled up beside it at the edge of the grove. She got out and said, “Sorry Ned went on like that. I think he may have been trying to demonstrate that he has the situation under control and doesn’t really need you.”

  “I take it he wasn’t in favor of an outsider coming in.”

  “He might have been, if Hy hadn’t supported the idea.”

  “Is there some ill will between them?”

  She took a small flashlight from her bag and shone it on the ground as we walked downhill to the cabin. “More like competitiveness, at least on Ned’s part. Hy was perfectly civil to him at first, but now relations are definitely strained. All I could think of for the last half hour was how much I’d like to get out of there and have a brandy. Fortunately, I’ve got some in the cabin. Join me for a nightcap?”

  “You’re on.”

  We climbed the steps to the cabin’s porch; she got the door unlocked, reached inside, and switched on an overhead fixture—two bare bulbs attached to a horseshoe-shaped piece of hammered metal that cast garish light over the room and accentuated its more obvious flaws.

  “Ugh,” she said and went to turn on a table lamp. “Switch that overhead off, will you? Brandy’s in the kitchen cupboard to the right of the sink. I’ll get the wood stove going—it’s cold in here.”

  I did as she asked, then went through the swinging door to the kitchen and located a pull chain for the light over the sink. The room had knotty pine cabinets, worn green linoleum, and cracked tile countertops in an unfortunate shade of orange. The appliances were as old as the fifties-vintage ones in the kitchen at All Souls. Still, if Sanderman’s kitchen was as clean as this, I had to dispute his claim of germs lurking within. Probably his complaints were merely an indication that he was unhappy at being here.

  I found the brandy and two glasses that looked as if they had originally contained olives or maraschino cherries and carried them back to the living room. Anne-Marie stood with her back to me at one of the windows that opened onto the porch. She half turned, and I saw a peculiar frozen expression on her face.

  Quickly I set the bottle and glasses on the coffee table. “What’s wrong?”

  “The window. That’s why it’s so cold in here.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I opened it earlier and forgot to close it when I left.”

  “But you didn’t take the screen off, did you?” She pointed to where it was supposed to hook at the bottom; the hook was still in the eyelet, it had been ripped off the screen’s frame.

  She started to say something else, but I held up my hand, listening. It was very quiet in the cabin—but such silences can be deceptive. I crossed to the wood stove and picked up the poker, then moved toward the bedrooms.

  I swept the curtain aside from the archway leading to the room I was occupying. Nothing except the cheap maple bureau and single nightstand between twin beds. There was no closet where anyone could hide. My weekend bag sat on the bureau; I glanced at it as I moved toward the bath that connected this room with Anne-Marie’s. The bag seemed to be the way I’d left it.

  I reached into the bathroom and switched on the light. Pushed the door open, poker poised. Again, nothing—just the chipped white porcelain fixtures. I repeated the same maneuver at the opposite door; only Anne-Marie’s neatly made bed and carefully aligned clothing and cosmetics greeted me.

  When I went back to the living room and replaced the poker—feeling slightly foolish about the theatrical way I’d been wielding it—Anne-Marie still stood by the window. She said, “Another forced entry.”

  “Looks like.” I went to the door and stepped onto the porch. The missing screen was propped against the railing.

  She said through the open window, “I wonder why he didn’t put back the screen, to cover up.”

  “Either he doesn’t care that we know or he got scared off by something.”

  “Did he take anything of yours?”

  “I don’t think so. We’d both better check, though.”

  I replaced the screen as best I could and shut and locked the window. Anne-Marie went to her room, emerged shaking her head, and went to tend the fire. I returned to my bedroom and took a closer look at my bag. When I examined the side pocket, I found it unzipped; the envelopes I’d stuffed there earlier at my office had been disturbed. I pulled them out and carried them to the living room.

  “What’re those?” Anne-Marie asked, pouring two glasses of brandy and taking hers to the rattan chair opposite the couch.

  “My mail. You remember how people in my neighborhood were having trouble with kids trashing their mailboxes? Well, they finally got around to mine, so I’m having everything forwarded to All Souls. It looks as if whoever broke in here went through these envelopes.”

  “Is there anything in them that would identify you as an investigator?”

  “The forwarding stickers give All Souls’ name, b
ut not my position. Most people would just assume I’m an attorney.” I sat down and began checking through the envelopes’ contents.

  “I don’t know exactly why, but I’d rather no one here knew you’re an investigator. Maybe Hy’s passion for secrecy is contagious.”

  “Well, what I’ve got here is my Visa and Macy’s bills, a solicitation from the Friends of the Library, and a letter from my mother. No mention of my job in any of those. By the way, this reminds me.” I held Ma’s letter up. “I have to be back in the city by Tuesday afternoon, latest. She’s coming to visit.”

  Anne-Marie looked surprised; she knew that Ma seldom set foot outside San Diego. “How come?”

  “I’m not sure, and neither are my brothers and sisters. Ma seems to have embarked on an odyssey from one of us to the other. It’s mystifying—and somewhat nervous-making.”

  “Maybe she wants to meet George and is using this so-called odyssey to check him out.”

  “Ma’s not that subtle. But she’ll have her chance; he’s invited us to dinner Tuesday night.”

  “I can’t wait for a full report on that!”

  “I can wait. I could wait forever.” Ma is well meaning and I love her, but she can be very pushy with the men I’m involved with—and even the men I’m not involved with. “What I think I’ll do,” I went on, “is try to cover as much ground as I can here, then check out Transpacific while I’m in the city, and come back here next weekend, if necessary.”

  She nodded agreement and went to monitor the fire. I relaxed, basking in its warmth and sipping brandy. Then an unsettling thought occurred to me. “Anne-Marie,” I said, “you don’t suppose whoever went through my mail would call All Souls and try to find out more about me?”