by Susan Dunlap
“I want the devotional plates. I’ve done what you said.”
Suddenly I realized Walucyk thought I was one of the thieves. He assumed I was the contact he was expecting. No wonder he had been so cooperative, and so bewildered. I opened my mouth to tell him I was innocent, then shut it. Walucyk wouldn’t believe me. Nothing I could say would convince him now.
“Be patient,” I said, and headed for the door. Walucyk followed me. Stopping at the doorway, I said, “Go into the dining room and wait there for five minutes. You understand?”
He nodded.
He opened the front door. I passed through, careful not to touch the brass knob, and ran down the driveway.
I couldn’t spot a head in the living room window as I started the truck. If Walucyk had obeyed me, my truck and my licence plates would be out of his line of sight. If not, I was in a lot of trouble.
CHAPTER 17
I HAD A LOT of time to think on the way home. By Route 101 the drive to Henderson takes a little more than two hours. But not knowing whether Walucyk had seen my truck and then notified the highway patrol, I was afraid to cross the Golden Gate Bridge. It would be easy to spot a vehicle there.
I rather doubted if Walucyk had called anyone. He seemed more concerned about recovering his plates than in promoting justice. My guess was that he would spend a few days, a week, maybe even two, hoping to hear from the thieves again.
Of course, Walucyk didn’t know that the main thief was dead. He didn’t know Frank was the thief, so even if he had seen the news coverage of Frank’s murder it would mean nothing to him. Unless he killed Frank.
Suddenly that seemed to be a surprising and rather appealing thought. In the back of my mind, carefully unacknowledged, was the fear that Frank’s killer was one of my friends. I didn’t deal with it because there seemed to be no other alternatives. But Walucyk, that smug little snob who condescended to dine at a restaurant I couldn’t even afford, would be a great find as Frank’s killer. I certainly wouldn’t miss him. It was surprising how much he had irritated me in so short a time.
I laughed out loud. I had thought I was deceiving Walucyk. I had congratulated myself for gaining access to his house and his collections, for saying just the right thing—Miss “On-Spec” Writer. I could have given him any story. He thought I was one of the thieves. It didn’t matter what I’d said.
Deciding against the safest and the longest route home (south to San Jose and looping back on the far side of the bay), I made a compromise and headed east across the Bay Bridge to Oakland, then drove north from there.
Once on the bridge, I went over what exactly I had learned from Walucyk. He was certainly an obnoxious little man. But could he be a killer? I wasn’t sure. He didn’t strike me as one who would have second thoughts over employing an assassin once he was assured of his own safety. But hiring a third party is always dangerous. Walucyk did not seem like a man who would readily accept danger, certainly not one who would creep unseen into the Place and shoot Frank with his own gun. His Mercedes parked outside Frank’s would have been noticed by more than the old people across the street, and the alternative—Walucyk canoeing to Frank’s trap door—was too ridiculous to consider.
So, onward to the motive.
Suppose Walucyk and Frank were partners.
To steal Walucyk’s own property?
Well, no. But perhaps to simulate a theft and defraud Walucyk’s insurance company. A set of three hundred thousand dollar plates had to be insured. So suppose Walucyk had met Frank in San Francisco and set him up in Henderson with the secret room, and then had Frank steal the plates and hide them there. Then Frank wouldn’t give them back for the price they had agreed upon?
I sighed. There were plenty of holes in that theory. First, there was no reason to think Frank and Walucyk knew each other. San Francisco is a big place. Even an interest in Asian art does not imply knowing every other aficionado in the business. And Frank wasn’t in Walucyk’s league. The set of Chinese plates was merely one of Walucyk’s collections. He probably had over half a million dollars’ worth of art in his living room alone. When Frank lived in the city, he had to sell his ivory just to meet the rent.
Secondly, even if Walucyk had met Frank and planned an insurance fraud, he would have had no way of knowing if there was a bar with a secret room for sale in Henderson.
Lastly, if Walucyk had picked someone to steal his collection, he wouldn’t have chosen a man whose sole vehicle was a red sports car with so little room to carry anything that it would have required two trips to do the job.
No, it was much more reasonable to accept Walucyk for what he was: a rich, obnoxious collector whose Chinese plates had been stolen. Therefore, what he told me was also likely to be true.
Monday afternoon at two-seventeen, two hours after I had stalked out of the place, Frank called Walucyk to raise the ransom price. Someone was with him. Frank would hardly have anyone other than his partner there at that time. And the partner would have had the vehicle to transport the plates.
I drove north now, through Hercules, and Crockett, and across the Carquinez Bridge. As soon as I left the city the San Francisco mist turned to rain and was coming down heavily. I switched the wipers to high.
So in the process of one of their housebreakings Frank and his partner stumbled upon the Chinese plates. Perhaps Frank, familiar with oriental art, recognized the plates. What was it Chris said about Frank? Frank hated to be taken, and once he became interested in something he researched it thoroughly. But that was only after the item caught his attention. So he probably didn’t know anything about the plates before he stole them.
Maybe his partner was the knowledgeable one. Madge, as I thought earlier this morning, might well have studied about Chinese bronze. Skip? Maybe, though he never said anything to suggest it. Paul and Patsy? Rosa, Carlo, Chris? Ned? I couldn’t imagine any of them knowing a Chinese devotional plate from a brass candy dish.
I veered left and headed northwest, back toward the ocean. I was still well east of Henderson, still thirty miles southeast of Santa Rosa.
There was one other possibility, an accomplice who would be familiar with a Chinese ceremonial plate, one who had access to a truck, and whose truck could be seen around town without raising suspicion: the Chinese Laundry.
The Chinese Laundry truck came to Frank’s Place daily. The driver could have carted contraband in or out. He could have stopped anywhere on his route. If the truck had been parked outside Walucyk’s Russian River house, it might not have been noticed. It certainly wasn’t spotted outside Frank’s Place the day he was killed, at least not by the old people across the street.
The Chinese Laundry building was in Santa Rosa. It was four-thirty now, but I didn’t picture the owners of a Chinese laundry knocking off early. I envisioned them standing over their machines, thinking, in Chinese, about the ceremonial plates.
Even if they did not recognize the plates themselves, a Chinese person might be alerted by the insignia. Through benevolent associations or family ties, they would probably be able to discover the origin of the plates and their worth.
Perhaps Frank’s partner objected to ransoming the plates. Perhaps the plates were of such religious significance that he did not want them out of Chinese hands once they had come into his possession. Was that the reason Frank was killed?
Or perhaps the partner was willing to surrender the plates to occidental hands only for a higher ransom price—four hundred thousand dollars instead of three. Then, when Walucyk balked, Frank might well have suspected the whole deal would fall through. He might have realized that Walucyk would contact the sheriff and the state police, and not only would he get nothing for the plates, but even his regular housebreaking would become much more difficult and dangerous. Certainly an argument over that could have led to Frank’s death.
And, the fact was that the Chinese Laundry truck was at Frank’s Place after I left there Monday. The driver of the laundry truck didn’t have to slink along South Bank Road or b
attle the river currents in a canoe. He only had to walk into the Place, as he did daily, and shoot Frank.
I turned onto the Santa Rosa business loop. I’d seen the laundry building when I substituted for a Santa Rosa meter reader months ago. It was only two blocks off the freeway.
As I pulled into the driveway, I noted six trucks parked alongside the building. I pulled in, jumped down from the cab, and headed for the office.
On the door, under the name CHINESE LAUNDRY, was a drawing of a hand with the tips of the thumb and first finger meeting. Inside the circle formed was a Chinese pictogram, similar to ones used in pendants, which stands for good luck, long life, or wealth. Taking this as a good omen, I opened the door.
The office was empty except for a woman who sat behind a desk. The laundry handled commercial accounts only, so there was no need for a counter; the napkins and tablecloths were brought in off the trucks.
“Can I help you?” The woman looked up. She was small, blond, and definitely not Chinese. She was also in the process of stuffing something into her purse. I glanced at the clock above her. It was two minutes to five.
“I’m looking for the owner.”
“Is there a problem?”
“I need to speak to him.”
“Our customer service representative—”
“I have to speak to the owner.”
She hesitated, then said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Fitzgerald is in Reno.”
“Fitzgerald!”
“Yes, Mr. James J. Fitzgerald.”
“But this is the Chinese Laundry.”
She laughed. I could tell my reaction was not unique.
“It is,” she said. “Mr. Fitzgerald bought it from the Wu family four years ago. He left the name because”—she eyed me appraisingly—“because how many people are going to send their linens to something called the Irish Laundry? That sounds like something that handles I.R.A. funds.”
“What about drivers? Do you have any Chinese drivers?”
“No.” She looked pointedly at the clock. It was after five. “The drivers will be around back now. You can see for yourself, if you go quickly.”
“Thanks.” I hurried out.
The rain was heavy; the parking lot dotted with puddles. Frank’s partner didn’t have to be the owner of the laundry; he only needed to be the driver on that route. He didn’t even have to be Chinese. Walucyk wasn’t Chinese and he was an expert on Asian art.
By the time I got out back I could see three pickup trucks pulling out, two men talking, and another climbing into a Honda. None of the three were Chinese.
I approached the two standing together. One pulled open the door of an old Chevy and climbed in. The other leaned over to the window and said something; I was still too far away to hear.
“Excuse me,” I said, coming up beside him. “Are any of the drivers here Chinese?”
He turned. “What?”
“Chinese. Are any of the drivers Chinese?”
“Nope. Not a one. Not in the three years I’ve worked here. You seen any Chinese here, Sam?” he asked the man in the Chevy. The man shook his head.
“Who drives the route in Henderson?” I asked the man outside.
“Why do you want to know?”
“I need to talk to him.”
He was middle-aged, a bit given to paunch, and a lot given to trailing brown hair. Without moving his head he looked me up and down. “I guess you can talk to me.”
“You mean you’re the Henderson driver?”
“As much as anyone.”
“Huh?” The rain was smacking on my face. I had to shout.
“We rotate. Fitzgerald’s Rule. We never know what route we’ll be doing until we get to work, see? Pain in the ass, but that’s what the boss wants.”
“How come?”
“Well, you know.”
“No.”
He looked me square in the face, then shrugged. “There was some trouble a couple of years ago. One of the drivers had his own route, if you know what I mean—his own deliveries. Sheriff didn’t like that. Boss didn’t like it either.”
“Gotcha,” I said. “And thanks.”
“Hey,” he called as I started off.
I turned back.
“You want to come for a drink?” he called.
“Another time. Thanks.”
By the time I ran to the truck, I was soaked, tired, hungry, depressed, and angry. I was all those things the sign on the door of the ersatz-Chinese laundry was not.
When I considered Frank’s murder, the Chinese Laundry truck was always an element. It seemed important. How could it be so expendable?
But since there were no Chinese, art experts or not, driving the trucks or in ownership positions, and no drivers on the route long enough or reliably enough to be useful to Frank, then the only reason that the Chinese Laundry truck was at Frank’s Place the day Frank was killed was to deliver laundry.
I backed my own pickup out, pulled onto the road, and headed toward Henderson. In the glove compartment were chocolate bars I kept for emergencies. Added to the toast I’d had at breakfast and the donut later, the chocolate bar would complete a diet I was glad my mother wasn’t aware of.
I realized as I crossed the freeway that I was depressed not only because a promising lead had evaporated, but that in its loss, I had eliminated another chance for Frank’s killer to be a stranger. Like Martin Walucyk, someone at the Chinese Laundry would have made a very acceptable perpetrator. Now I was left with only my friends to suspect.
Not wanting to think about it, I turned on the radio. Waylon Jennings sang a few bars, then faded off.
“The big news here in Russian River country is the river itself. According to unofficial reports the river is expected to crest at Cloverdale late tomorrow morning. As the water rushes downstream the other towns along its banks continue to prepare for the worst.” This was a local station. As the flood neared, I’d been told, high water reports were broadcast on the hour, then on the half-hour, then every fifteen minutes, till the flood water washed out the electricity. “Residents of Guerneville,” the announcer continued, “should expect the river to flood by tomorrow afternoon.”
I turned the report off. At least North Bank Road shouldn’t be under water now.
In the silence I ran through the revelations of the day. Frank had a partner. It could be any of those who’d been at Rosa’s eating fettucini the night of Frank’s death. Every one of us had a suitable vehicle. But one had to be the prime suspect. Who?
Belying the radio report, water covered portions of the road. I slowed, spraying a passing car as I drove by.
Lights were on in the houses on the hillside. Those buildings between the road and the river were dark, deserted. When the river flooded tomorrow the whole Russian River area would be like those houses, except instead of emptiness there would be confusion. There would be enough mud and water and panic to thwart any sleuthing I had in mind, and to cover any moves the killer chose to make. If I were to find Frank’s killer before he’d covered his tracks forever, I’d have to do it while the river was still between its banks.
Which of us was closer to Frank? Who knew something? Who acted different around him? Who was especially upset at the time of his murder?
Frank gave the impression of being everyone’s friend. But there was only one person he met regularly. There was only one person he saw twice a month, deliberately, out of view from the casual observer. Only one person he met intentionally in the state park.
I crossed the bridge to South Bank Road and headed to the canoe rental.
CHAPTER 18
THERE HAD BEEN PUDDLES in the parking lot of Paul and Patsy Fernandez’s canoe rental when I’d left there two days ago. I’d had trouble avoiding the potholes. Now heading through it was more like steering a boat than driving a truck. The water splashed at the doors of the pickup. Twice I drove into a pothole and had to gun the engine to keep going. The canoe rental was on low ground, almost in the river at the
best of times. It flooded early, dried late. Had it been run by anyone other than Paul and Patsy, I would have been surprised to see a light in the office window. (Of course, if someone else were running it, they would not be living in the office.)
Even in boots and rain gear I wasn’t prepared for the wade over to the office door. The water topped my boots and soaked my jeans. I knocked hard on the door.
Paul opened it. “Hi, Vejay, how’re things? Sheriff leaving you alone?” he asked before it occurred to him to move aside and let me in. In my haste to confront Patsy I hadn’t considered what to do about Paul. Frank’s meetings had been with Patsy alone. No one had observed him talking to Paul. It was very possible that Paul was entirely innocent of their arrangement, in which case Patsy was not likely to talk in front of him.
“You’re soaking,” Paul said.
“No other way to get here.”
“Yeah, well,” he said, as if those two words were an explanation. “How about some brandy to warm you up? We still have a little.”
“Thanks.”
Patsy was sitting on the leather sofa, her long black hair falling over the thick cowl of a wool sweater and the collar of a down jacket. She had a blanket pulled around her legs. She merely nodded in my direction.
For the first time I noticed the kerosene lamps, four of them, burning in groups of twos. “How long has your power been off?” I asked her.
“Since noon. It’s a bummer.”
“Cold,” I said.
“Cold and boring. No music. No television. All you can do is think about how cold you are.”
Paul handed me a glass and took another to Patsy. The discussion of temperature reminded me that my wet jeans were becoming icy. The heat of the brandy going down my throat felt good. If only it could travel to my feet.
“Why don’t you leave?” I asked. “Park your van on high ground, or go to one of the shelters. It’s only going to get worse here.”
“Can’t,” Paul said, sitting on the couch next to Patsy and pulling the blanket over his legs.
I waited.