by Lisa King
THE PAIR strolled down to the cliff at the ocean’s edge and explored the tidal pools. As the sun got lower in the sky, they walked back to the inn and changed clothes. Jean put on a white button-up shirt and narrow black pants, silver earrings, and black flats. The pants had a touch of spandex, so she hoped she wouldn’t have to unbutton them if she ate too much. Zeppo wore his usual tweed jacket, slacks, and button-down shirt, this one blue.
The small, cozy restaurant was half full when they arrived; a hostess led them to a table. The walls were decorated with interesting pieces of marine hardware. A young man with a buzz cut and a white half-apron introduced himself as their waiter.
“We’re going to have lobster,” Zeppo announced. “Can we pick our own?”
“Of course.”
“Come on, Jeannie. I’ll show you about lobsters.” A large tank of live ones burbled near their table. Zeppo pushed his sleeve back, reached in, and pulled out a flailing lobster, turning it over. “See, these are the swimmerets,” he said, pointing to the appendages just behind the legs. “You look at the top pair. The males’ are hard and bony, like this, and the females’ are soft and feathery. The females have sweeter meat.” He picked up several of the struggling creatures in turn, hefting and examining them. “You want one that hasn’t shed recently. These are in pretty good shape, but they’re never the same after a few days out of the ocean. They’re really incredible right off the boat.”
Their waiter came over. “Looks like you know what you’re doing,” he told Zeppo.
Zeppo nodded. “These are all males, right?”
“Yeah. The company we buy from protects the females so they can live a long life and make lots of new lobsters.”
“OK then. We’ll take this one.” He handed the waiter a lobster and checked a few more. “And this one. Split and broiled, please.”
The waiter carried the crustaceans into the kitchen, and Jean and Zeppo returned to their table. “Why not boiled?” Jean asked.
“Trust me, this is the best way to eat them.”
Jean ordered a local Chardonnay, crisp and intense to go with lobster. “So tell me, how did Martin meet Hugh Rivenbark?” she asked. “He wasn’t the kind of guy I’d imagine hanging out with a famous author, colorful character or not.”
“Martin came up to Mendocino sometimes, and once he was driving around and spotted Hugh’s house,” Zeppo said. “Apparently it’s pretty spectacular, on a high cliff above the sea. Martin really liked it, so he went right up to the door and made Hugh an offer. Hugh said no thanks, but he invited him in and they got to be friends.”
“I guess since they were buddies, Martin decided not to use the Home to Greenwood manuscript to make Hugh sell him the house,” Jean said.
“It wouldn’t have worked anyway. Hugh loves the house, and like we said before, he’d just be annoyed if the manuscript went public. It wouldn’t really cause him any trouble.”
The waiter delivered their lobsters, split lengthwise, the exposed surface delicately browned, accompanied by salad and sourdough bread. “Mmm, you’re right,” Jean said as they dug in. “This is delicious, better than boiled.” She dipped a chunk of meat into melted butter. “I love eating with my hands.”
“Me too,” Zeppo said as he skillfully extracted the meat from a leg.
“Zeppo, how did Esther die? I didn’t want to ask Edward.”
“Martin said he and Hugh talked about it. And I did some research after I got the manuscript. See, Hugh had wooden steps built into the cliff below his house so he could get down to the water. She fell off them one day at low tide and smashed her head on a rock.”
“Where was he when she fell?”
“Up at the house, writing at his desk. The investigation cleared him. They got along great, he didn’t have a girlfriend, she didn’t have a boyfriend. He had no motive to kill her. Like Edward said, he was really broken up. He never remarried.”
“He must have had girlfriends. That was thirty years ago.”
“Martin said there’ve been women, but they never last. Have you read any of his books?”
“Of course. I was an English major.” Jean washed down a bite of lobster with Chardonnay, enjoying the combination.
“What do you think of them?” Zeppo asked.
“I love his descriptions of the Mendocino coast. His plots are heavy on male posturing and father-son angst, neither of which fascinates me, and most of his female characters are too wimpy, but he knows how to write. You’ve read him, too, haven’t you?”
“Yeah. I like Home to Greenwood best, like everybody else.”
Jean ate her last bite of lobster. “That was wonderful. I could almost eat another one.”
“Well, why don’t we? I can afford it. Plus we have time.”
Jean laughed. “That’s pretty decadent, even for me.”
“Hey, I once ate five of them at one sitting.”
“Did you? OK, let’s go for it.”
“Good. I admire a woman with healthy appetites.” He called the waiter, and before they were through Jean was glad she’d worn stretchy pants.
CHAPTER 20
After dinner Zeppo drove south along Highway 1 for a few miles, turning west on a side road. It was dark, but they could hear and smell the ocean ahead of them. They rounded a bend and saw, on the edge of a nearby bluff, a large well-lit house built of weathered wood and glass, all dramatic angles and sweeping lines. Zeppo turned into the driveway, drove through a grove of trees, and came out into a clearing next to the house. Floodlights illuminated a gravel area where a silver Nissan sedan and an old Chevy pickup were parked. Zeppo pulled the Jag in next to them.
Hugh, in jeans and a cable-knit sweater, opened the massive front door and shook their hands. “Welcome,” he said warmly. “You’re providing a much-needed diversion.”
He led them into the house. The interior was as dramatic and grandly scaled as the exterior—big open rooms, high ceilings with exposed beams, oversized chairs and couches, rough-hewn wooden tables. A bound manuscript with a pen clipped to it lay open on one of the tables next to a pair of reading glasses.
Jean and Zeppo settled into chairs near a wall-sized window that looked out over the cliff and the dark ocean. Hugh brought a bottle of wine from the kitchen. “I’m making final corrections on my latest novel,” he said. “It’s always disheartening to realize it isn’t as good as I thought it was when I wrote it.” He poured them wine, a Mendocino Petite Sirah Jean wasn’t familiar with, and sat down in one of the big chairs. “Zeppo says you’re looking into Martin’s death.”
“We thought you might have some ideas about it,” Jean said. She sipped her dark purple wine, tasting black cherries and smoke, with traces of buttery oak and vanilla on the finish. Delicious—she made a mental note to research the winery.
“Martin was a fascinating man,” Hugh said, leaning back in his chair. “He was entirely in the tradition of the Borgias in fifteenth-century Italy or the nineteenth-century American robber barons. Unlike our current crop of corporate scoundrels, he actually produced something useful. Do you know why he called his yacht the Walrus?”
“Sure,” Zeppo said. “That’s the name of Flint’s pirate ship in Treasure Island.”
“Exactly. As you two know full well, he was completely unscrupulous in business. What I found refreshing was that he didn’t pretend to be anything else. And he was a good friend to me.” Hugh chuckled. “Although I must admit I was taken aback when I got my old Home to Greenwood manuscript in the mail. I thought it had been burned years ago. Thank God it didn’t fall into the hands of a desperate graduate student.”
“Have you really written all your books longhand?” Jean asked. “I could never be a writer without a computer.”
“In fact I have. I pride myself on it. The act of putting words on paper clarifies my ideas and physically embodies my thoughts. Martin was a creature of habit—he had no use for the manuscript, yet for some reason he kept it with all his other incriminating m
aterial. He told me about the blue box, Zeppo. I know what you did for him and how highly he valued you.”
“You knew about that?” Zeppo said, surprised.
“Oh yes. I may even use the idea in a book I’m planning. I didn’t know the details, of course, but I knew what it was and how he used it. That’s why Diane asked you to investigate, isn’t it? Knowing her, I imagine she doesn’t want the police to make all the secrets public.”
“That’s why Jean’s involved,” Zeppo said. “I’m doing it for the old pirate himself. We’re operating on the assumption that someone from the blue box killed him.”
“We’re also taking a look at Kay,” Jean said. “What can you tell us about her?”
“Kay. That woman terrifies me. She has absolutely no convictions, but she’s very intelligent and a natural politician. I’d even call her Machiavellian. And with her Rational Right movement, she’s becoming a major player.”
“Do you think she could have killed Martin?” Jean asked.
“She wouldn’t have any moral qualms about homicide. As far as that goes, I don’t think she’d have any moral qualms about genocide. But there would have to be a very strong reason for her to risk everything. I’ve been thinking a lot about who could have killed him, of course, and I haven’t come up with any sort of motive that would work for Kay. Their divorce was amicable—the grounds were the usual irreconcilable differences. I think you’re probably right that the motive is in the blue box.”
They sipped their wine in silence for a few moments. “We talked to Edward today,” Jean said. “He showed us Esther’s picture. She was lovely.”
“Yes, she was beautiful. Edward and I are a couple of sorry old men when it comes to Esther. We have a tendency to drink too much and reminisce. But at least he has Laurel and his children. Before long he’ll have grandchildren, too. Esther was all I had.”
He got up and went to the window, looking out at the breakers below him. “This is going to sound bathetic, but I know I haven’t written anything worthwhile in decades. Something went out of me when she died.” He turned back to them with a self-deprecating smile. “But enough of this morbid self-absorption. How’s Diane doing these days?”
They talked about other things as they finished the Petite Sirah. Jean and Zeppo thanked Hugh and left around ten, Jean driving.
“What do you think of Hugh?” Zeppo asked.
“I like him. Although I wonder about people who’re still hung up on a lover who’s been dead for decades. There’s always an ulterior motive. Hugh’s using it as an excuse for the decline in his writing.”
“But if he really loved her, maybe he was never the same after she died.”
“Oh come on. He couldn’t get over it in thirty years? He couldn’t meet anyone else in all that time?”
Zeppo smiled at her. “Not everybody’s as tough as you are.”
“Too bad he couldn’t tell us anything useful about Kay,” Jean said. “Roman would be so happy if we could tie her to Martin’s death.” Jean pulled into a parking space near the inn and they went inside.
“That was a good day, Jeannie, except for your run-in with Setrakian,” Zeppo said. “It doesn’t seem to bother you too much, though.”
“If you let that kind of thing get to you, you’re giving the assholes power over you. Getting mad helps.”
“And hitting back helps, too, I bet.”
“Yeah, that helps a lot.” They said good night on the landing and went into their pink rooms.
THE NEXT morning Jean and Zeppo donned helmets and tight-fitting cycling clothes and headed south on Highway 1, Jean in the lead, past The Eyrie to the tiny town of Elk. They turned inland there and climbed through the green wooded hills that rose above the coastal plain, passing vineyards, apple orchards, and herds of sheep and cattle grazing on the steeper slopes. Traffic was light on the back roads. A couple of times they had to ride on the shoulder when fully loaded logging trucks passed too close.
Jean felt relaxed and elated, and slowed to enjoy the view as they rode in the outside lane, winding along a steep green slope.
“Jean!” Zeppo yelled. “Get off the road!”
With his shout, she became aware of an engine coming up behind them. There was no shoulder. Thinking they were about to be crushed by a logging truck, she turned her bike sharply and rode down a grassy bank onto a flat area a few feet below. Zeppo landed next to her. An old white Jeep Cherokee nearly slid down after them—the driver cut his wheels back just in time, spraying them with gravel.
CHAPTER 21
“That car tried to run us down,” Zeppo panted. “Let’s get away from the road.”
The downward slope continued for several yards. They rode to the bottom and along its base, on a bumpy cattle track that followed the road to their left. Another steep hill rose on the right. Jean could hear the Jeep’s engine revving.
Zeppo looked back. “He’s coming after us.”
Jean glanced over her shoulder—the Jeep had found an easier way down and was behind them on the cattle track, gaining fast. The driver was unrecognizable in a ski mask, sunglasses, and a bulky jacket.
“Fuck!” she exclaimed. “Let’s go over the hill.” She turned off the track and sprinted up the slope, standing on her pedals, pumping as hard as she could. Zeppo hung back long enough for her to get ahead and pulled in behind her. “What are you doing?” she yelled.
“Shut up and ride, Jeannie.”
As they ascended a steep grassy pasture scattered with oaks, they kept the trees between them and the Jeep, which came up after them. Jean pushed up the hill, her lungs straining and legs quivering with effort, fear and adrenaline fueling her. Finally she flew over the crest, both tires leaving the ground, Zeppo right on her tail.
The landing jarred her bones, and it took all her strength and concentration to navigate the sheer, rocky downhill slope as they skidded and slid to the bottom of the hill. There were fewer trees on this side, but the Jeep would roll if it tried to follow them.
As the ground leveled out, the forest got thicker and they rode quickly into a stand of trees. Jean looked back at Zeppo. Suddenly her front wheel struck something and she went down, sprawling on the rocky ground. Soon Zeppo knelt beside her. “Are you OK?”
Jean was stunned for a moment. Her right arm and leg were skinned, but everything seemed intact. “Just scraped up, I think.” She listened briefly. “I don’t hear the Jeep anymore, but we should get out of here anyway.”
Zeppo helped her up and they pushed their bikes deeper through the trees to a dense grove of pines. Jean laid her bike down and fell exhausted onto a thick carpet of pine needles. She struggled to catch her breath.
Zeppo was breathing hard, too. “What a rush!” he exclaimed. “I’ve never ridden like that before in my whole fucking life. Of course, I’ve never been that scared before. Let’s have a look at your leg.” She extended it for him. There was a four-inch cut just below her knee, bleeding profusely. “Oh shit.” His face, flushed from the ride, grew pale, and he closed his eyes.
“Hey Zeppo, don’t faint on me,” she said.
“Man, I hate the sight of blood.” He took a breath and then examined the cut. “It’s not deep. I don’t think you’ll need stitches.” He raised her leg and gently rotated the ankle and flexed the knee. “How does that feel?”
“Fine. Nothing’s broken.”
“Can you ride?” he asked.
“Sure. I’ve had worse falls. Did you see the driver? Ski mask and all?”
“Yeah. It could have been anybody.”
Zeppo rinsed her cut with water from his bottle and patched it with bandages from his first-aid kit. When he was done, he patted her knee. “That’s the best I can do for now.”
“It’s fine, thanks.” Jean carefully stretched her cut leg and touched her side. She’d have some bruises there as well. “He must have followed us all the way from the inn,” she said. “I guess we’re doing something right, partner. We sure as hell pushed s
omebody’s buttons.”
“I’d say Setrakian—he hates me and you threatened him. But we didn’t exactly sneak out of town, and we’re not what I’d call inconspicuous. I mean, consider: a six-footfive redheaded geek and a silver-haired Amazon driving a Jaguar that’s older than we are.”
Jean laughed. “Incognito. That’s us. By the way, thanks for getting between me and the car, you idiot.”
“I’m here to serve and protect, Ma’am. Let’s go take a look.”
Zeppo helped Jean up. The cut stung, but she was able to move around fine. They pushed their bikes back through the woods to the base of the hill.
“You wait here,” Zeppo told her. He climbed the rocky slope and went over the top. Soon he reappeared and gave her a thumbs-up as he slid back down. “The Jeep’s still there, stuck. Has two flat tires. I don’t see the driver anywhere. I got the license number.”
“Did you bring your cell?” she asked. “We could check on people’s whereabouts.”
“Nah, I don’t usually take it riding.” Zeppo sat beside her. “Jeannie,” he said, “I’d rather not get the police involved, because if they are, we’ll have to explain why someone would want to run us down. We’ll have to name all the people we’ve talked to and explain about the blue box. If we report it as a hit and run and the car turns out to belong to one of our suspects, same result. The whole thing will end up in the news. I’d like to keep going without reporting this. But I’ll understand if you want to tell the police.”
“I’m with you. Let’s keep it quiet. And it’s my own fault I fell. I wasn’t watching where I was going.”
“I was hoping you’d say that. I’m determined to find out who killed Martin, and I’d love your help. But if you want to bail—”
“I’ll stay in. I haven’t had an adrenaline rush like that in years. This is really exciting.”
“It’s also dangerous.”
“We still have to narrow down our list of suspects,” Jean said. “We haven’t really eliminated anyone but Setrakian, and I don’t want to ruin Emory or Treadway if they’re innocent.”