Tommy Alfred was the name of the man eating breakfast with Frank Harkness when the latter was arrested by Sheriff Firkins back in the ’80s. Ergo, Joan Alfred was Frank’s sister. That made her Marcia Harkness’s sister-in-law.
I selected the largest screwdriver, climbed atop the surge tank and went to work. In 10 minutes I had separated a four-foot section of plywood roof from its joists. Nails creaked loose and laminated wood ripped noisily as the pieces came apart. I put my eyes to the opening. After watching for a few minutes, I saw Joan Alfred come out of the house and go across to the barn. A few minutes later she returned to the house and went indoors. There was no sign of the ranch hand.
I started levering again. It took me less than 15 minutes to create an opening wide enough to climb through. I got out, dropped to the ground — nothing the worse for my experience but for a ripped pant leg — and ran back to my car. I had the Chevy started and moving before Frank Harkness came charging out of the house. He gave me both barrels but it was a futile gesture. I was too distant. I honked my horn at him and kept going.
≈ ≈ ≈
Twenty-five Hundred Stateline Road was a cemetery. A marble stone over Marcia Hunt-Harkness’s grave told me that she had died on February 18, 1987. Her grave marker was exactly like hundreds of others on that well-tended hillside. A vase of wilted roses, with a slight fragrance still clinging to them, stood before the slab.
The cemetery’s custodian was a small portly man named Mr. Motherlake, wearing a Pirates baseball cap and well-tailored khaki coveralls. His office, in a miniature Parthenon, overlooked inescapable evidence of man’s mortality. Being surrounded by death seemed to buoy Motherlake up rather than otherwise. When I entered his office, his grin of sunny optimism widened. He pointed to a seat opposite his desk and said, “You found her then?”
“Exactly where you said she would be.”
Motherlake clasped his hands across his wide stomach and said comfortably, “Never known ’em to move, once they get settled.”
I hesitated. I wanted to know Marcia Harkness’s exact cause of death and that information was probably contained in Motherlake’s filing cabinets. I said, “Mr. Motherlake, I need advice.”
“You certainly are a curious man,” Motherlake teased. “All you do is ask questions.”
“It’s important for me to find out who signed Mrs. Harkness’s death certificate.”
“Another young man in a hurry. I meet a lot of them here,” Motherlake said, his chin moving up and down. He exhaled a long sigh and added, “It’s those gravestones out there. They remind people that time is running out and it makes ’em impatient.”
“I could go to Carson City, request the information through official channels, but weeks might pass before those bureaucrats moved.”
“True, Mr. Seaweed, and the chances are that even then those bur-eaucrats wouldn’t tell you. They take death certificates very seriously in Carson City.”
“Here’s the truth,” I said. “I’m a cop on the skids, working on a case in my own free time.”
Motherlake looked me in the eye. Everything I said was being filtered through his bullshit detector so I gave it to him straight. I said, “There’s a kid back home who was railroaded into jail. Got five years for a crime he didn’t commit. I’m trying to straighten it out, make amends.”
“I don’t get it. This kid. Is he supposed to have killed Marcia Harkness?”
“No. It’s complicated. Marcia’s death is the key to solving some old mysteries.” I slapped my hand on his desk and added, “The hell of it is, Mr. Motherlake I’ll swear on a stack of tombstones there’s a copy of Marcia’s death certificate in this very office.”
The brilliance of Motherlake’s smile diminished by a particle. “Ah,” he said. “But my records are confidential.”
We sat facing each other with a desk between us.
A two-wheel vehicle the size of a golf cart was towing a utility trailer loaded with gardening tools through the cemetery. Motherlake watched it for a while; then, without a word, he lumbered out of his seat and went across to the filing cabinets. Soon a photocopy of Marcia Hunt- Harkness’s death certificate was in my hands. A glance at the certificate told me that Marcia’s physician had been Dr. Robert Danwell of Reno.
I said, “You seem like a happy man, Mr. Motherlake.”
“I got the world’s best job,” he said, pointing outside. “Never had a single argument with the folks who pay my wages.”
≈ ≈ ≈
The heat of the day was not waning with the sun, and I had not eaten since breakfast, but I drove past a hundred air-conditioned restaurants because I wanted to make one last call before the business day closed. I entered one of Reno’s older high-rise office towers just after 6 p.m.
I got out at the sixth floor and entered an empty waiting room. “Dr. Danwell just left,” the nurse-receptionist said. “You just missed him.”
She had a gentle voice and sounded genuinely sorry. I took a closer look at her. She was a middle-aged woman dressed in white, wearing an old-fashioned nurse’s cap of starched and folded linen. A name tag pinned to her breast said she was Ethel Walters, rn.
Next door, in Dr. Danwell’s consulting room, a chair creaked. Somebody whistled a few bars from Aida.
Ms. Walters blushed and said, “I’m sorry, sir. Dr. Danwell’s appointments are over for the day. Perhaps I can book you in tomorrow … ”
The door opened and Dr. Danwell came in. He took in the situation at a glance and said, “It’s fine, Ethel, my golf game doesn’t start for an hour. I’ll see the gentleman now.”
We went into his office. Dr. Danwell sat in his leather chair, staring across Nevada’s parched desert as I gave him an edited version of my search for Marcia Hunt/Harkness. When I stopped speaking he sat in silence for a full minute. Then he rang for Nurse Walters. When she answered, he said, “Please dig out Marcia Harkness’s file and bring it here.”
He turned to me. “I’m always happy to co-operate with the police, but you’ll forgive me, Mr. Seaweed, if I try to keep this brief.”
The doctor leaned back, collected his thoughts and said, “Marcia was my patient for about two years. She was a generally healthy woman with a good constitution. I saw her just a few times. As I say, she was healthy, but she was unlucky enough to get shot by a rustler.”
The doctor stopped speaking to see how this news affected me, but I was wearing my Indian stone face. He went on, “Marcia owned a small ranch. A few head of cattle, some sheep, horses. This is a big country. It’s practically impossible to control range theft. As I recall, there’d been some rustling in Marcia’s area and the local sheriff wasn’t able to do much more than send a man out in a patrol car once a month.”
The nurse entered with Marcia’s file. Dr. Danwell glanced at it briefly before setting it on the desk. “As I was saying. Marcia and her neighbours organized a vigilante group. She and some others were out patrolling the area one night and came across some men butchering sheep. Things turned nasty. There was a shootout and Marcia was hit in the chest by a bullet.”
“Killed?”
“Not outright. One of the vigilantes was an army vet with combat experience. They did all the right things and got Marcia to a hospital. She was operated on right away and lingered for a few days before dying.”
“What was the official cause of death?”
He consulted the file and said, “Marcia’s death resulted from pneumonia and secondary infections following massive gunshot trauma.”
“And presumably the rustlers got away and were never seen again?”
He smiled, but the smile did not touch his eyes. “Wrong. Those rustlers were captured within a few days because the police had a good description of both them and their truck. The killers were ranchers themselves. There was a big to-do about it when the facts came out.”
“Do you remember, Doctor, whether your patient was tattooed?”
The doctor frowned. “Not that I recall.” Another tho
ught seized him and he sat up straighter. “What are you getting at?”
“Marcia Harkness had a rose tattooed on her right shoulder.”
The doctor shook his head. “Well, it’s possible.” He opened the file and browsed for a moment, then glanced at his watch, moved impatiently on his chair and pointedly closed the file. He said politely, “Now, sir, if you’ll forgive me, I have to leave.”
He stood up and switched on a quick professional smile.
“Just one more thing before I go. Is Alison Harkness your patient also?”
He smiled. “Allie? Oh, yes. I believe she’s doing well at Pearson Art College. Winning prizes, getting her name in the newspapers.”
Dr. Danwell folded his arms and looked thoughtful.
I said, “Something wrong, Doctor?”
“No. Just thinking about the Harknesses. Strong-minded women, the pair of ’em.”
≈ ≈ ≈
After three hours of poker I was down $550. I lost a big pot with a jacks over eights to a woman holding four fives, then I watched the same player win with a straight flush, another four of a kind, and several three-of-a-kind hands when everybody else was holding two pair. I cashed out and sat at the bar. My heart wasn’t in the game. I was thinking about Allie Harkness instead of cards. Would Allie be like Joan Alfred and refuse to co-operate? And just exactly what was Joan afraid of?
≈ ≈ ≈
The next day, after a fine breakfast at the House of Pancakes, I drove out to Alison’s art college. Its campus was situated on what, until recently, had been raw desert. Saguaro cactus stood like sentinels on the surrounding hills. Within the campus walls, irrigation sprinklers watered grassy lawns. Hundreds of transplanted deciduous trees provided welcome shade. A parking-lot attendant directed me to the administration building. A clerk in the registrar’s office obligingly checked Alison’s schedule and told me how to find her. I crossed a green, tree-shaded quadrangle to the arts building, found Room 201 and waited in an air-conditioned corridor until Alison’s art history lecture ended. I watched the class through a window. Alison sat in the small room with seven other students — I picked her out easily. Four of the students were male, two of the female students were natural blondes. Alison had long black hair, like her aunt, tied in a ponytail, and I saw a likeness between her and Calvert Hunt.
After the lecture, Alison chatted with her instructor as fellow students filed out of the classroom. The instructor looked up when I entered and gave me a nod of polite acknowledgment but continued his conversation for a minute. Alison looked incuriously at me.
She was as tall as her aunt, possibly six feet, and, like Joan Alfred, deeply tanned from the Nevada sun. She had heavy eyebrows, huge dark eyes and a straight nose, too large for real beauty. But she was an attractive woman with a good figure, wearing faded Levis and a yellow T-shirt.
Her conversation with the instructor ended and they both came across.
I smiled and said, “Excuse me, Miss Harkness. I’d like a word, if I may.”
The instructor went off.
Alison was holding school books against her chest. She said, “You’re the man who visited the house yesterday?”
“That’s me, Silas Seaweed.”
“I heard. You were asking questions about my mother.”
“Can we talk? I’ve got a lot to tell you.”
“Not now,” she said. “I have classes and I need to sort a few things out first.”
That was the wrong thing to say to me. I made a prune mouth at her. The investigation was going sideways. Alison’s cool reaction was irritating, to say the least.
I gave Alison my card and said sweetly, “Fine, you’ve got things to sort out. Life’s all about choices, isn’t it? I’m returning to Victoria. If you rearrange your priorities and decide to chat, you can catch me at this number for another couple of hours. Then I’m gone. Goodbye.”
I turned on my heel and strolled away.
≈ ≈ ≈
I’d traded my hotel suite for an $18-a-day efficiency apartment near Taff’s piano shop. I was packing my bags when somebody knocked on my door. Looking through the peephole, I saw Alison’s distorted image. I opened the door and glanced along the corridor. She was alone.
“May I come in?” she said.
“Sure, come in.”
She moved in a step, glancing around the sparsely furnished apartment, seeing the depressing beige colours, the ’70s kitchen with its stainless steel sink and twin faucets. The air in the room stank of yesterday’s hamburgers and fries. Two suitcases lay open on the bed. My loose pocket change, keys, maps and a briefcase were strewn across the dinette table.
I took my remaining shirts from their hangers in a closet, lay them on the bed and began to fold them, one at a time. I said, “My ex-wife taught me how to fold shirts. It’s a skill I’ve never forgotten.”
She said timidly, “Have you forgotten your wife?”
“Not yet.”
The noise of vehicles passing along the road outside came in rhythmic waves because of a traffic signal. A fly buzzed in the window.
“Do you and your ex-wife both live in Victoria?”
“Yes.”
“I’m tired of secrets,” she blurted at last. “I’ve never understood it, any of it, and I don’t think that Joan does either.” She glanced at her wristwatch. “This couldn’t have come at a worse moment. I have exams coming up and it’s only an hour until my next lecture.”
I shrugged and resumed my packing.
She stamped her foot and said angrily, “You know something? I hate this fucking room.”
“How do you think I feel? I’ve had to live here.”
“Let’s go outside and sit beside the motel pool,” she said. “I need air.”
I closed the lid of my suitcase, put a knee on it to compress the contents and snapped the catches.
I said, “That’s it. Let’s get out of here.” I lugged my things out to the parking lot and locked them in the Chevy.
Alison seemed on the verge of tears.
I said, “All right, let’s quit playing games, okay ?”
“Okay. I’m … I’m sorry. I guess I was rude earlier.”
“Yes, you were. The question is, why?”
She didn’t answer, but the thought foremost in my mind was: like mother, like daughter.
We found a bench in the shade across from the pool, its surface liberally sprinkled with fallen leaves. Alison threw her arm across the back of the bench. “Please,” she said. “Please tell me about Victoria.”
I took a deep breath and said, “You haven’t been there?”
“I’ve never been anywhere except Nevada and California. But I run into people from Victoria all the time.” After a pause she added, “It sounds very nice.”
“Did Joan tell you what happened between me and your father yesterday?”
Alison covered her face with her hands and groaned. Shaking her head, she said, “Oh, God! Had he been drinking? He’s crazy when he gets drinking.”
She was flushed to the roots of her hair now.
I gave a speech. “Victoria is a small coastal city on the edge of rain forest,” I said. “It was established by the Hudson’s Bay Company back in the mid 1800s. It’s British Columbia’s capital city. If you like tree-lined streets and parks and heritage buildings you’ll probably like it. I have a feeling you’ll be seeing Victoria before long; then you can decide for yourself.”
The girl’s eyes lit up at this, but she said nothing.
“It’s a long story, Alison. Your mother was born in Victoria, in the house where your grandfather still lives.”
She gave me a startled look. “I have a grandfather? He’s still alive!” she exclaimed, sitting bolt upright.
“In Victoria you have a grandfather, a great-aunt and your mother’s first cousin.”
“I knew it!” she cried. “I just knew it!” Then her face clouded. “But there’s something horrible too, isn’t there? Terrible things happened
that nobody talks about.”
“It should be talked about. Too many years have been wasted.”
Alison’s hand still rested on the back of the bench. I resisted an urge to reach out and touch it reassuringly. Instead I said, “Does any of this frighten you?”
“A bit.” She nibbled the inside of her lower lip with her teeth, and the crease between her eyes deepened. “But I have to know, no matter how awful. Not knowing is the worst thing in the world.” She touched my knee with her long fingers. “Tell me why my mother left home and never went back.”
“Shouldn’t you be asking your folks instead of me?”
“Do you think I haven’t? They never talk about it, not a word. Daddy hates Canada, Victoria especially.” Alison’s face got a little harder. Her chin jutted like the prow of a battleship.
I said, “You probably know that your mother left home because of a disagreement with her folks.”
Alison was frowning at her left thumb.
I said, “Anyway, there was a clash.”
“Don’t apologize, just tell me what you know.”
“I know that when your mother was younger than you are now, she met your father. A man your grandparents disapproved of.”
Alison nodded. “I knew that much. Daddy was wild, a merchant sailor. He spent years at sea, even after I was born. I hardly saw him until he showed up after Mother died.”
She had a faraway smile and was mentally reviewing a childhood fantasy. No doubt it was a fantasy suggested by a protective mother to explain the missing father. It stopped me for a minute, but now Alison was an adult. It was time for the truth.
“Your father wasn’t away at sea, Alison. He was a … ” I paused, unsure how to phrase my next words.
She moved her body impatiently. “Oh, don’t stop now, please! Not just when I was going to learn something. I told you. Not knowing is terrible. Nothing could be worse than what I’ve imagined, believe me.”
“You might be wrong. Before he changed it, your father’s name was Frank Turko. He was born in Oakland, California. As a young man he was involved with a motorcycle club. Something happened, there was a fight. A man died and the courts ruled your father responsible.”
Seaweed on the Street Page 20