An Equal Opportunity Death

by Susan Dunlap

  The desire for revenge must have given birth to Frank’s move to Henderson. He came here, found a partner (he’d have to have a partner to do the actual burglaries), and bought the Place for its secret room.

  No wonder Frank had asked Madge Oombs about oriental bronze right after he moved here. It must have been on his mind constantly then.

  Frank was good at research. He would have read the news accounts of Walucyk, the collector, just as I did. He would have noted Professor Everson’s attempt to buy the plates from Walucyk. How Frank must have enjoyed calling and pretending to be Smithson, leading Walucyk on, and using his own arrogance to convince him to move the plates to Henderson. How he must have loved making the ransom calls and then raising the price. Frank was the one person who wouldn’t have cared if the plates were never fenced. It wasn’t money he wanted. If Walucyk agreed to the four-hundred-thousand dollar demand, would Frank have raised it to five? Would Frank ever return the plates to Walucyk?

  Looking back at the little figures in Frank’s netsuke, I was surprised that Frank resisted taking it. But Frank, of course, was not the actual burglar. Frank and his red sports car were at the Place, a clear alibi.

  So then the accomplice, who must have been there listening to Frank raise the ransom price, must have killed him.

  I took one last look at the netsuke. Even in the dim light of the house its gold teeth glistened.

  I hurried out the back door, leaving it banging in the wind and rain, and ran up the incline toward my truck. In spite of the rain, something about the truck looked odd. I was still a few feet away when I discovered what it was.

  The left front window had been smashed.

  CHAPTER 21

  I STOOD, STARING AT my truck. The window on the driver’s side was broken. Glass shards had fallen on the seat and the floor. Rain, heavier still now, was coming in through the broken window.

  How was I going to explain this to Mr. Bobbs? While I had been on my PG&E route, housebreaking, someone smashed my truck window. Just like someone took an axe to my pickup engine. It was beginning to sound ridiculous.

  Who would vandalize a PG&E truck? People cheated on their usage, people complained about rate increases, but no one broke windows on our trucks. Amongst the corporate dollar-gobblers, we were mere nibblers. No one felt that strongly about PG&E.

  I reached under the seat for the whisk brush. As I cleared away the glass, the rain pelted against my back.

  Replacing the brush, I noticed the empty passenger seat. My route book was gone! Frantically, I searched the truck, but the Chinese plate in its brown paper bag was still safe under the seat. Only the route book was missing.

  Nothing could be so dull or useless to anyone else as a utility route book. Yet someone had stolen it. Someone had taken the chance of breaking into my truck, right here on the street, for the purpose of taking my route book.

  I climbed into the truck. The seat was wet. The rain blew through the window and smacked against my face. I made a U-turn and stopped the truck, good-window side to the rain.

  What could anyone—not just anyone—what could Frank Goulet’s killer want with my route book?

  This day’s route, the remainder of the one I had been on Tuesday, included the town and the commercial routes on both sides of the river all the way to the west bridge. Did he, or she, know that? It would be easy enough to find out. Anyone could call the office and ask when their meter would be read. So, what did Frank’s killer need from this particular route book?

  I sat back, considering Frank’s killer.

  Had Frank’s killer and partner been privy to the plan to steal Walucyk’s Chinese plates when they set up the burglary operation? I doubted it. No one but Frank would take the risks involved to steal a set of plates too distinctive to fence, and then agree to toy with the one person who would pay money to get them back. A partner might steal them for ransom, but he would never raise the price one hundred thousand dollars above their value (above what the insurance would reimburse) just so Frank could enjoy his revenge. Frank apparently was willing to chance pushing Walucyk to the point where he would not or could not pay, but no partner would have acquiesced.

  More likely, the partner had joined a simple, relatively safe burglary operation. It had earned him a little extra money, enough to keep the sewer system from completion.

  But how did they know which places (other than Walucyk’s) to burgle? Even a simple casing of a house required more than driving by in second gear. It meant parking, getting out, checking on means of entry, on neighbors, on alarms. Who could do that time after time without drawing attention?

  The most likely suspect, the one with a truck that could be parked for an hour without raising questions was, alas, me. My PG&E truck was a common sight; it had reason to be anywhere. No one noticed me. The only people who recalled seeing me were the old people across from Frank’s Monday. Monday! And then I hadn’t been working. I wasn’t driving the PG&E truck. The old people recalled seeing me at Frank’s Place Monday because I had driven my own pickup, which would not normally be there at that time of day. They remembered seeing Chris for the same reason. But the Chinese Laundry truck, which they saw every day, made no impression on them at all. They never mentioned that to the sheriff.

  Suddenly, it all fell together. There was only one other truck in town that could be anywhere with good reason; one truck that could be parked by the riverbank or by Frank’s without causing any notice. The owner of that truck could easily have business there. For Frank’s killer, the risks in burglarizing houses would be worthwhile if he earned enough to stop the sewer and the urbanization of Henderson. Even with the money from the burglaries, it still might take a few days to get the cash to give to Frank for Patsy—thus the delay she complained of.

  I knew who the killer was. It only made me feel sad. Had I thought about it before, I would have realized there was no way not to be distressed, no matter who the killer was. My discovery would ruin our community. The Henderson of Ned’s childhood vacations would be broken apart, the safety and the magic gone forever. It had been inevitable since Frank’s death, actually since the first burglary. I wished Frank had never come to Henderson. I wished I could forget about Frank and let the murderer go. But I, of all people, had no choice.

  The sheriff was concentrating on me. In his eyes, I had motive, opportunity, and possible connections in San Francisco to fence the stolen items. I had worked in the city at twice my present salary long enough to develop expensive tastes. Once the sheriff discovered, as he inevitably would, that I had searched Frank’s Place and had possession of the Chinese devotional plate …

  Still, I didn’t steal my own route book. But in the face of the potential evidence against me, I doubted if I could convince Wescott even of that.

  Although I knew the identity of the killer, I needed to find him quickly, before the flood waters burst through town and washed away any evidence of my route book or the Chinese plate. I needed to find out why he took the route book. And I needed to get to him before he made use of it.

  I put the truck in first gear and drove slowly along the hilly lanes. The wind was gusty. Rain spit in through the broken window. Oil lamps flickered in a few houses. Those with shutters folded them closed over the windows. Smoke pouring thick from chimneys mixed with the rain to form a gray paste between the land and what light there was left in the sky. I turned on the headlights.

  I discovered the Chinese plate because of Frank’s electricity usage. His increased usage was necessary to run the space heaters and the dehumidifier he needed to preserve the bronze finish of the plates. The plates were no longer in Frank’s Place. Frank’s Place had been ransacked after I was there, by someone looking for those plates. It couldn’t have been Martin Walucyk. He didn’t know Frank’s name, much less where he worked. It must have been Frank’s partner.

  And by the time he searched the Place, the plates were gone. Only two people knew the plates were hidden at Frank’s. The killer was looki
ng for them. So Frank must have been the one who had moved them in the first place, to hide them from his partner, to keep his partner from contacting Walucyk himself and arranging his own deal for the plates. But where had Frank taken them?

  I slammed on the brakes. I wasn’t watching the road. Ahead was a mudslide. I backed into a driveway and turned around. Frank hadn’t been out of town in a month, so he told me. As far as I knew he had been at Frank’s Place every day, even Sundays. So, wherever he took the plates, it had to be local. And it had to be a place where he could plug in his dehumidifier and heaters, someplace using electricity.

  But why, then didn’t he take the dehumidifier and the heaters? They were still in the secret room beneath the Place. Did he load the plates into his sports car and have no room left for the bulky heaters? Was he murdered before he could make a second trip to his new hiding place?

  Frank had been asking about restaurants for sale, but he hadn’t actually bought any other property. He would hardly have called PG&E for a hookup on property he didn’t own. So what I was looking for was a place that wasn’t listed in the route book but was using electricity. An illegal hookup. And that’s what the killer was doing. Since he had the route book, he could skip any place listed in it. He had a big advantage.

  I thought back over the portion of the route I just completed, trying to recall empty houses. There were plenty this time of year. But Frank would have needed someplace where he’d be sure no owner would turn up unexpectedly, someplace that was empty and would be for a long time. And it would have to have decent enough wiring for an electrical hookup, wiring able to support two heaters and a dehumidifier. No old house would have that. I’d blown a fuse in my own house using a heater and the hair dryer at the same time. What Frank needed was commercial wiring.

  A restaurant. Frank had asked Skip Bollo about restaurants for sale. As Skip said, restaurants in the Russian River Resort Area were on the river. My route book covered the roads by the river. That was the reason Frank’s killer needed to have my route book today. As Chris said last night, the river would rise quickly, higher than the new people—like me and Frank—would expect. It would invade the lower buildings on the riverbank. It would knock down walls and wash away everything inside. It would rush into Frank’s new hiding place and sweep away the Chinese plates.

  The water already covered the road. The killer didn’t have much time. If he did get the Chinese plates out, this would be an ideal time to dispose of them, while everyone else was preoccupied with the flood. No one would notice if he was not around. He could drive to San Francisco with the plates and be back without anyone realizing he’d been gone.

  I pictured the route along the river as it had been last month when I walked it. Mentally I walked from building to building, allowing myself no “fast forward” in my vision. There were, numerous houses, and many motels and businesses closed for the winter that would reopen soon, too soon for Frank. Those were places whose owners would come up to assess the damage as soon as the flood waters receded. Frank needed a place no one would check.

  There were three deserted commercial buildings at the west end of town. I started the engine and followed North Bank Road to the nearest, a weather-worn old place that might once have been a café. Its white shingles had turned gray-brown with years of exposure and neglect. Its porch swayed precariously over the river. Now, as I pulled to a stop in front, I could see the water lapping over the porch.

  The building had been empty as long as I had been living here, and from everything I had heard, even years before that. As I made my way through the weeds toward the door, I could see a line around the side halfway up the windows—the highwater mark from the last flood eight years ago.

  I followed the drop line to the weatherhead. The wires were tied around the pole, their raw ends flapping in the wind. There was no power on in here.

  I walked back to the truck, irrationally relieved at having the confrontation postponed.

  The second building, deserted even longer than the first, was already a foot under water. No one was around. No drop line even left the main line. I drove on.

  The water crested the bank. Across the river, I could hear sirens. Water flowed onto the road. I slowed as the road dipped and the truck wheels went into the water. From either side of the road redwood branches formed a dark green canopy, alternately sheltering my truck and deluging it with water. The last building, once a sandwich shop, was ahead. The killer’s truck was parked outside. There had been no attempt to hide it. Had I been passing, I would have thought nothing of it. I pulled the truck in front, blocking its exit.

  Automatically, I looked up for the drop line. It came in from the street, attached to the weatherhead. If I checked the meter, I would find it bypassed. I had found Frank’s illegal hookup.

  I opened the truck door and pushed hard against the wind to keep it from slamming back into me as I climbed out. It banged shut, but the noise wouldn’t be heard above the battering of branches against the building, or the clamor of debris hitting the deck pilings.

  The water washed over the deck. It would be at least a foot deep inside the building.

  I passed his truck. In the back, piled unceremoniously, were eight boxes. The small plate was still stashed in my truck. That left only one still inside the building.

  I wished … I pushed open the door.

  Carlo Fortimiglio was holding the box in those strong arms that compensated for his injured leg. The box was large, wooden; it must have held one of the biggest plates. Looking at me, he shifted it to one arm, holding it as easily as he would one of his grandchildren.

  “I’m sorry, Carlo,” I said. With the rain pounding on the roof and the branches hitting against the wall, I didn’t think my voice was loud enough to carry across the room. But Carlo nodded. He seemed to be deciding.

  He beckoned me closer. The water was almost up to my knees. I clung to the doorjamb, then to the door, and let it open inward.

  Carlo stood halfway across the room.

  “This is as close as I can come,” I said. Carlo had killed Frank. If he killed me, he’d be free. But he was Carlo—Carlo who dug my pickup out of a mudslide when I first came up here, Carlo who ladled the clam sauce onto Rosa’s fettucini. Carlo who killed Frank.

  “I know,” I said. “Was it only for money to delay the sewer construction, to save your family’s—”

  “To keep the fish, the town, for us. Yes.” He stood braced against the wall, holding the box easily in his left arm. Suddenly the wind was calm, the room quiet. “But I didn’t have a choice. Years, maybe ten years ago, there was a bad spell. I hit—burgled—some houses. I stashed away a little money. Chris let it slip. The boys in the Navy, they drink, they say things they shouldn’t.”

  “Chris told Frank, and Frank threatened to go to the sheriff unless you burgled houses for him?”

  “Yes, that. And he took my money, for his down payment. He said he’d pay it back.” Carlo made a sound between crying and laughing. The wind grew stronger, but still I had no trouble hearing him.

  Carlo took a step toward me. “But I don’t excuse myself. I didn’t argue. Why should I? We didn’t steal from local people, only summer people. They could afford it. They have insurance. I didn’t take too much. Maybe I hit one house a month.”

  The stolen goods would have gone into Carlo’s old truck, a common sight in town as he hauled wood, carted off debris, or repaired a deck. It was the truck no one would notice. With his injured leg, Carlo might be unsteady on a rolling boat, but as I watched him stand in the rising water, holding the box, there was no question he had well compensated for it on land.

  “Frank chose the house you took the plates from,” I prompted.

  He looked down at the box. Again, he stepped closer, within a foot of me. “I figured it was just another hit. But later, the more I thought about it, how did Frank know to take the plates, the plates but not the little statues? How did he know who to call for ransom? How much to ask? Th
en I figured he had planned it all along. He made a fool of me.

  “I told him—this is big stuff. He’ll get the sheriff, and the state police, maybe the FBI after us. I told him—get rid of these.” He stared down in hatred at the box. “But Frank, he says I got no choice. Then he calls the guy who owns them and tells him three hundred thousand dollars isn’t enough money. He wants four hundred thousand dollars. I hear the guy argue. I hear him say he doesn’t have it. When Frank gets off the phone he laughs. He says ‘Maybe five hundred thousand.’ I tell Frank he’s crazy. There isn’t going to be any five hundred thousand dollars. No four hundred thousand. No money. No money at all. All we’re going to get is the sheriff.

  “Frank laughs. He says the sheriff won’t find him. He can disappear like that.” Carlo snapped his fingers. The box bounced in his arm.

  “I shot him. I had to,” he said so softly that I could barely hear him. “He would have gone and left me with no money, nothing but trouble.”

  “And you were going to call Walucyk and take the three hundred thousand dollars? And then when you looked for the plates they were gone?”

  Carlo nodded, but I could see his mind was elsewhere.

  “Yes. And now,” Carlo said, “I’ll go to jail. All the burglaries will be known. Everyone in town will know I’m a thief. And the insurance companies, they’ll be after me; they’ll take our house and the fishing boat. And lawyers …”

  I could almost see him realizing that with me dead, no one would know. No police, insurance companies, lawyers.

  Something smashed into the building. The box came flying at me. I screamed, jumped, but it caught my shoulder and threw me back, down into the water. I grabbed for the door, missed, and slid across the floor toward the deck, toward the swirling brown waters of the river. I grabbed for the doorjamb, where the back door to the deck had been. The whole building shook. Something else—big and heavy—smashed against the side of the room. The supports underneath me swayed. I clung to the wall, bracing my feet against the other side of the doorway, working them toward the inside of the wall. The water was swirling; it had gotten deeper in just those few moments. I braced my feet and grasped at the slippery doorjamb. Desperately, I looked back into the room.