I said, “I’m not who you think I am.”
The old man frowned. “You’re not from the movers?”
“No, I’m a cop.”
“Goldanged movers are always buggin’ me about something. They called this morning, supposed to pick up that Steinway in the back, but it isn’t ready.”
“I heard you tuning it.”
“A cop, eh? Well, you’re not going to buy a piano so what do you want?”
“I’m making inquiries about a missing woman. I hope you can help.”
“How much is this gonna cost me?”
“A few minutes of your time.”
“Good. Sumbitch came in here last week packing a gun. Asked for money, but he didn’t get none.” The shopkeeper cackled at the memory.
I said, “Twenty years ago, more or less, somebody called Marcia Hunt, also known as Harkness, might have come into this store and bought a piano.”
“Smart woman if she did. I’ve got the best deals in town, don’t let anybody tell you different.” He scratched his ear with a finger, then stared at his dirty hands. He said, “See that? Dust everywhere. Wait a minute.”
With that he turned on his heels and pushed his way through the red curtains. I heard water running. The shopkeeper returned, wiping his hands on a dirty towel. “I’m going to have a cup of coffee. Let the movers wait,” he said and busied himself with a jar of instant behind the counter. “Okay, mister,” he said. “Talk.”
The shopkeeper listened intently while I told my well-rehearsed tale, then he excused himself and went out back again, returning immediately with a kettle of boiling water. He poured the water into two mugs. “Here,” he said, “help yourself. There’s only decaf. I hope you’re not one of these coffee purists.”
“Thanks,” I said, looking at the murky green-grey concoction before me.
“That’s me,” he said complacently, lighting a cigarette. “Rather spend my time bullshittin’ and drinking coffee than taking care of business.” He inhaled deeply, then coughed until his face turned purple and veins protruded from his temples. When the coughing fit subsided he put the cigarette in an overflowing ashtray. Blue tobacco smoke spiralled upward and hung over his head like an inversion as he poked around in drawers. He said, “I’ve got records going back to 1943. Book for piano sales, other book for rentals and repairs. The sales book is kinda skimpy. Best times I had were in the ’50s. There was money around them days. Mothers still wanted their kids to learn real music. Sometimes I’d sell two pianos a month. Now mothers buy their kids dvd players and iPods. I’m lucky to sell six pianos a year. Kids that do take up music are into saxophones and guitars, but I won’t touch ’em.”
He put on a pair of glasses and browsed his records. After less than a minute he pointed a long nicotine-stained finger. “Here it is,” he said. “Marcia Hunt, 1379 Pitchpine Road. I sold her a Heintzman upright for $600 on August 6, 1985.” He laughed. “What do you know! We hit pay dirt or not?”
I chewed my lip. Marcia was no ghost. Twenty years ago she had been here, in this room. She had walked through the same door. To judge by the age of his stock, she might have gazed at the same pianos. I thanked him and said, “Did Marcia pay cash or use a credit card?”
“Cheque. I’ve got a copy of the invoice.” He handed it across for me to look at and asked, “What difference does it make whether she paid cash or not?”
“I think she only used her real name when she had no other option. It’s made her hard to trace.”
The invoice was as the dealer had said — Marcia had paid by cheque. There, in a neat signature written with a fountain pen, she had acknow-ledged that the piano had been delivered to her residence in good condition. This was the same hand and the same pen that had written a thank-you note to Dr. Cunliffe. The reason she continued to use the name Hunt, instead of Harkness, remained a mystery.
≈ ≈ ≈
Pitchpine Road was a rutted desert trail branching off Highway 395, 10 miles south of town. The road had been built to service a long-abandoned silver mine. What remained of an ancient prospector’s dream was a collection of vandalized corrugated-iron sheds and rusty narrow-gauge rail spurs. Beyond the mine, the road had been fenced in places where optimists had tried to develop hobby ranches. Side roads snaked off toward a range of humpbacked hills. Hovels with sagging porches and cracked windows baked in the heat. Scrawny chickens scratched among weeds. House dogs, snoozing in the shade, came to life and barked as I drove past in my Chevrolet.
Real-estate signs advertised lots for sale, but the signs were ancient. Some lay flat on the sun-baked earth, overgrown by cactus and creosote shrubs. I kept going past tumbledown barns and sun-drunk horses till a fingerpost marked 1379 pointed me toward yet another side trail.
This trail, washboarded and barely wide enough for a single vehicle, wound down an ancient water-carved draw between wind-eroded sandstone cliffs. Brown hawks rode on thermals high above. More hawks perched motionless on fence posts and utility poles. I bridged a rise and stopped the car. Stretched before me was a dun-coloured valley, locked in on every side by low hills. Beyond, shimmering in the heat haze, the Sierras rose beneath a blue cloudless sky.
According to Reno’s city directory, 1379 Pitchpine Road was rented to Mrs. Joan Alfred. A grove of trees surrounded a tall, wind-driven water pump. Nearby was a neat red-painted house and a large barn, enclosed by white picket fence. I got back in the Chev, drove on and parked near the barn.
The house was a square, box-like bungalow with a pyramid roof pierced by a brick chimney. It was surrounded by a wide, screened veranda. Three steps led up to the veranda. I climbed the steps, crossed the veranda and knocked on the door.
A painter’s easel with an unfinished canvas was set up in the veranda’s shade. Nobody answered the door so I looked at the canvas. It showed a wrinkled, grey-haired ranch hand holding a chestnut horse by its bridle. The horse was unfinished, as was some background detail. The work, expertly done, was signed “Allie.”
I knocked again, waited a minute and went back down the steps. Standing with my back to the house, I noticed somebody lying in a hammock suspended between two lemon trees near the water tank. I went across. The man depicted in the unfinished oil painting was asleep in the shade. He had on an open-necked cotton plaid shirt, blue jeans and cowboy boots. An empty glass and an empty bottle of Jack Daniels sat on a table within reach of his hand.
I cleared my throat noisily and said, “Sorry to disturb you, sir.”
The sleeper did not answer. Except for the slight movement of his chest when he inhaled, he might have been dead. He was either drunk or pretending to be. I left him to it.
Two German shepherds appeared along the valley, followed by a rider on horseback. When the dogs noticed my Chevrolet they began to bark and pelted toward it until a call from the rider brought them back. The rider was a black-haired woman mounted on a chestnut mare. I strolled across the yard and opened the gate for her. The woman raised a hand to shade her eyes, looking at me without expression as she rode through the gate and into the barn, followed by her dogs.
The woman permitted the chestnut a small drink from a water trough. She then removed her heavy western saddle and threw it across a trestle with practised ease. She glanced at me once or twice, with little apparent curiosity, as she tended her mount. The dogs, lying quietly with their bushy tails brushing the ground like twin brooms, watched her lead the chestnut into a stall.
She was tall. Skinny rather than slim and heavily tanned. Her cheeks and neck were as wrinkled as a dried apple. She had dark, deeply set eyes, black eyebrows, a large nose and a wide mouth. With her high cheekbones, firm chin and youthful carriage she must once have been a beauty, before the sun ruined things. I guessed she was about 50, but her face, neck and hands were 10 years older.
After forking some hay into a manger and watching the chestnut eat for a minute, she turned to me and said curtly, “Mister, I hope you’re not a pain-in-the-ass salesman, a governme
nt assessor or a lost prospector, because I want a cold shower and you are in the way of it.”
I turned on my best bogus charm. “I’m not lost. I probably hate salesmen as much as you do.”
She let out a breath and made a small, angry, impatient noise. “Who are you then, and what do you want?” Her diction, unlike the usual desert drawl, was clipped and precise.
“I’m a cop, my name is Silas Seaweed. I’d like to ask you a few questions, if I may.”
“You’re not local, I know that.”
“True.”
“I’m Joan Alfred,” she said, looking at me through half-closed lids. “You can wait for me on the veranda. Don’t set foot inside the house unless invited or I won’t answer for the dogs.”
Fifteen minutes later, Joan Alfred had on slacks, a green silk shirt and beaded Navajo moccasins. Her long black hair, still damp from the shower, showed a few grey strands. She had painted her mouth with dark red lipstick, and it was again obvious that before too much sun she had been very beautiful. She invited me into the living room. The two dogs followed us and flopped down by a brick fireplace. The room had a polished wooden floor and was furnished traditionally with leather chairs, heavy Mexican chests, Navajo rugs. She said something to the dogs, stood with her back to the fireplace and lit a cigarette.
“I’m from Victoria, B.C.,” I said. “I’m making inquiries about a woman named Marcia Harkness.”
Joan Alfred’s expression did not change. “How does that affect me?”
“Marcia was a pianist, a good one. In 1985 she bought a piano from a shop in Reno and had it delivered to this address.”
“I wouldn’t know, but so what? I’ve only lived here 15 years or so.”
“Does the name Marcia Harkness mean anything to you? Or Marcia Hunt?”
“No.”
I said, “Before you came, I was admiring a painting on the veranda. Is it your work?”
“No, my niece is working on it,” she said impatiently. “Allie’s away at art college right now.”
“It’s very good.”
Her nostrils flared. “Mr. Seaweed, are you here to talk about paintings, or what?”
I stood there looking at her, wondering how to play this. I said carefully, “The city directory lists you as the tenant here, ma’am. Would you mind telling me who your landlord is?”
She turned things over in her mind and shrugged. “I don’t know whether I should. Maybe the owner doesn’t want people to know.”
“No offence, Mrs. Alfred, but it probably wouldn’t hurt to tell me. The owner’s name will be registered in Carson City. It would save me a little trouble, that’s all.”
“Why should I save you a little trouble?” she said sharply.
Immediately, she relented. “I’m sorry,” she said, sounding as if she meant it. “That was stupid. I’ve had a long hot ride and perhaps my mood isn’t the best. Would you like some cold lemonade?”
“Thanks. I’d like that very much.”
She threw her half-smoked cigarette into the fireplace and went through a bead-curtained doorway. I crossed to the fireplace and took a closer look at the picture hanging above the mantelpiece. It wasn’t a painting, as I’d first imagined — it was a faded brass rubbing showing a round-faced king. The king wore a crown and was holding an orb and a sceptre.
The door to an adjacent room was open. An arrangement of photographs in silver frames stood atop an upright piano in a corner.
Joan Alfred returned with a jug of iced lemonade and two glasses and set them on a coffee table. She poured two glasses of lemonade, handed one to me and motioned me to a chair.
She sat opposite, smiled and said, “I’m sorry. This house is owned by a Mrs. Fantelli. Mrs. Agnes Fantelli. She lives in New York. The place has probably been in the Fantelli family’s hands for more than a century. They were the original owners of the Pitchpine silver mine.”
The old house creaked.
Joan Alfred smiled again and said, “This place comes alive twice a day. In the morning when the sun expands the wooden boards, and at night when they shrink.” She lit another cigarette.
I stood up. The dogs raised their heads. “Do you mind if I pet them? I like dogs.”
“It’s all right. They’re used to you now.”
I dropped slowly to my heels, showed them the back of one hand, then gently stroked their heads. They lay docile, unresponsive, watching me with big yellow eyes. I looked at the brass rubbing and said, “Are you English, Mrs. Alfred?”
She was sitting with her legs crossed. My abrupt question unsettled her. One moccasin came free from a heel. To give herself time to think she leaned forward and pulled the moccasin on again. She said, “Me, English? Why do you ask?”
“That rubbing reminds me of some that I’ve seen before. They were done in English churches.”
She stared at the rubbing, lips pursed. “My husband was English,” she said and got up. “It belonged to him. That’s supposed to be King Alfred. After Tommy had had a few drinks he used to boast that King Alfred was his ancestor.”
“And was he?”
“Not as far as I know. But then, I never met any of Tommy’s family.” She smiled and moved closer. “Tommy was a sailor. He jumped ship in Oakland. To me, Tommy seemed exotic, larger than life, but then, I was young. I didn’t know much about men. He was a lot more exciting than the boys I’d met in California. So I married him, like a sap.”
“Why were you a sap?”
She shrugged. “Tommy never loved me. I was his way to getting a green card.” She spoke self-deprecatingly. “But Tommy made me laugh. How he made me laugh.”
A strand of hair had fallen across her left eye. She brushed it away with the back of a hand.
“So. You married an Englishman. Doesn’t that make you English too?”
She shook her head. “I’m a Russian out of Oakland, California. My father’s family was from the Ukraine. Mother was Lithuanian.”
“That’s what I thought,” I said softly. Her smile faded. Before she could speak I added, “I want to show you something, Mrs. Alfred.” She followed me into the next room and we looked at the upright piano together. I said, “That’s Marcia Harkness’s Heintzman. The one she bought in Reno.”
“Heintzman, that’s a pretty common name for a piano, isn’t it?” she said, avoiding my eyes.
I said, “You told me you were Russian. I think that your name before you married Tommy Alfred was Turko. Your brother was Frank Turko. Frank changed his name to Harkness when he went to Canada.”
But I’d overplayed my hand. She strode to the front door, flung it open and pointed outside. “Clear off. Get the hell out before I set the dogs on you!”
The dogs were growling and their hackles had risen.
I was tired. The trail to Pitchpine Road had been long. I said impati-ently, “Mrs. Alfred, neither you nor Marcia has anything to fear from me.”
“You’ve got that right, mister,” she said caustically. “Especially Marcia. You can find her at 2500 Stateline Road. She won’t mind if you look her up, believe me.”
“’Cept for one thing,” a voice said. That ranch hand was standing on the veranda, holding a shotgun. He wagged the shotgun at me and said, “Listen up good, mister. You and me are going across to the trees together. You first. Put your hands in the air and keep them there. Try anything foolish and I’ll blow you away. Now move.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
The ranch hand was a tall, angular-faced man with a tight mouth and dark, pebble-hard eyes. He had thick shoulders and arms, a heavily muscled body, and — in spite of his 50-plus years — he moved as lightly as a dancer. Short-cropped hair covered his head like frosted wire wool. He had the look and manner of one who had spent many long dreary years pumping iron in prison exercise yards. This was Frank Harkness, I had no doubts about it.
He was about as expressive as a Caterpillar tractor, but I had him figured. This shotgun-toting incident had been spur of the moment, a senseles
s attention-grabbing device, the sort of drama that had probably served him well in jail, but was a recipe for disaster in the real world. Now he’d backed himself into a corner and didn’t know what to do next. I kept these thoughts to myself while he checked the contents of my pockets and then wordlessly locked me inside a concrete-block pumphouse that stood adjacent to the water tank.
The pumphouse’s metal door clanged shut, leaving me in the dark. I felt around for a light switch and turned it on. A twin-tube fluorescent fixture flared into light and added its electric buzz to the intermittent noise of a water pump mounted on a small surge tank. I leaned wearily against the tank. Frank Harkness represented the unknown, upon whom so many people had projected their terrors, real and imagined. That minute I felt useless, marginalized.
The pumphouse’s sloping roof consisted of asphalted plywood sheets supported on two-by-six joists. The sturdy steel door hung on industrial hinges. After examining them I saw there was no way, short of using a drill or explosives, that I could remove the door’s hinge pins.
A malicious impulse prompted me to switch the power to the pump off. The next time somebody flushed a toilet or ran a bath over at the house, they’d run out of water. After thinking about it, I switched the pump back on again. Harkness might get mad, come back and blast me with his shotgun. This wasn’t Canada. I was in nra country. U.S. courts dealt leniently with gun-toting citizens defending — or claiming to defend — their homes from intruders.
Several hand tools dangled from wall hooks — a crescent wrench; a selection of screwdrivers, pliers and the like; and a ball-peen hammer. I picked up the hammer and hefted it. It would make a dandy weapon.
Time passed rather slowly, giving me ample time to think, and remember.
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