The Rotten Rancher (A Nick Williams Mystery Book 16)

by Frank W. Butterfield

  "What's it about?"

  "He works up in Monterey and leaves Susan at home with little Bart, he's my grandson. They only have the one car and she gets cabin fever, which I really can't blame her for." She sighed dramatically. "If only they had another car." She waited. I could hear the slight mechanical buzzing that the small switchboard generated in the silence.

  I grinned to myself. Over the years, I'd been asked for money by all sorts of people in all sorts of ways. I recognized it when someone wanted me to give them money or buy them something. I never minded it. I had much more than I could ever spend in a hundred years and I kept making more and more of it. The truth was that most people were too embarrassed to directly ask or even pretend like they needed any. So, when I came across someone who had come up with a unique way of putting their ask out there, I always admired their ingenuity. I also always said yes. No one had ever come back again. Not at that point, anyway.

  "Well, Doreen. How about this? Once you connect me to long distance, how about you call Marnie, my secretary up in the City, and you tell her that I told you to tell her El Dorado."

  "El Dorado?"

  "Yeah. That's a little code we use. By the way, Mrs. Williams is my stepmother and Marnie's mother."

  "Oh, really? I had no idea."

  "Yeah. So, you call her and tell her El Dorado and then let her know about Susan and the car situation and she'll take care of everything."

  "Take care of what?" Her words said one thing, but the eager tone in her voice said something completely different.

  "Look, I'm running late. You put me through to long distance and then you call my office. Marnie will take care of everything. She's the best."

  . . .

  "Hello?"

  "Lettie, it's Nick. How are you?"

  "Just fine, Nicholas. How're things down there?"

  "Well, we still don't know, for sure, who did it, but we're making progress. Is my father around? I wanted to ask him a couple of questions."

  "He's at a meeting across the street at the club."

  "Do you have a few minutes, then?"

  "Certainly, Nicholas. How may I help you?"

  "First, do you know if my father knows S.F.B. Morse down here?"

  "Sam Morse? Of course. They've been friends since 1932, I believe. The last time we were down there, we had dinner with him and Mrs. Morse, Maurine, that is. When we were down there last year, first looking around, he wanted your father to buy a house in Pebble Beach, but Parnell wanted to be right above the ocean. I'm so glad he made that choice." It was funny to hear Lettie talk about that choice as if she weren't involved at all. I knew her well enough to know that it was she who wanted to live above the ocean. My father couldn't have cared less.

  "Do you think I could meet him?"

  "I don't see why not. Why do you ask?"

  "Something odd happened last night and it involves someone he knows. I wanted to see if I could do some sniffing around about that person." I was thinking about Tito and those two margaritas.

  "I see. Well, if there's one thing Sam loves, it's a good business deal. If you wanted to pick up a few acres here or there, that would get your foot in the door. Just ask Doreen to track him down. You do know she listens to all the local calls, do you not?"

  "Yes. I don't think she can listen in on long distance."

  "No. We tested that when we first moved in. Something about having to release the line. I don't know how those things work but I do know she can't hear us on this call, which is a relief since that woman is such a gossip."

  I laughed. "Yeah. I've seen that in action."

  "Was that all?" asked Lettie.

  "No. Do you like this house?"

  I could hear a faint sigh on her end. "Why do you ask?"

  "Carter wanted me to tell Father that it's..." I was going to say, "fire trap," but I figured that was too much. Instead, I said, "Well, it's made out of flammable materials. It's well insulated from the sound but it's not the best construction, over all."

  "Yes. That was pointed out to us when we bought it. The truth is that your father has been meeting with an architect in Monterey who has been drawing up something a little less modern and more in keeping with the ranches in the area. That living room is nothing less than horrible. It's awfully uncomfortable, as I'm sure you've noticed. What's the use of a spectacular view after the sun goes down or when the fog is so thick, you can't see beyond your nose?" Her voice was becoming heated.

  "It sounds like you want a new house now and, I'm guessing, the reason you don't have one yet has to do with the Hugheses."

  "Precisely. Mrs. Hughes, who is a very hard worker, was so very angry about the few small changes I made to the master bedroom. It's hard to understand."

  I sighed. "Do you know about Annie?"

  "Annie? Who is she?"

  "She was Mr. O'Bannion's daughter. She died a few years ago. Apparently, Mr. and Mrs. Hughes raised her. Or they thought of her as their daughter. I think they see this house as a kind of shrine to her."

  Lettie didn't say anything for a moment. "Oh, now I understand everything. It's odd they've never spoken of her. How did you find out?"

  "From Mrs. Hughes. But under duress. She wanted to tell me but he, Mr. Hughes, didn't want her to say anything. The funny thing is that everyone around here knows all about her. I don't know why he thought it should be a secret."

  "They're Okies."

  I frowned to myself. That didn't sound like the Lettie I knew. "What do you mean?"

  "They tend to keep to themselves. You know, Nicholas, California was not a welcoming place during the Depression. I have the impression that Mr. O'Bannion rather rescued Mr. Hughes from the C.C.C. camp that built Pfeiffer State Park. And, from what I've heard, Mr. O'Bannion paid for Mrs. Hughes to come out from Oklahoma. I got the impression the two couples, the O'Bannions and the Hughes, were very close."

  "That's what I heard, too. How'd you find that out?"

  "Piecing things together but mostly from Doreen."

  I laughed. "She's a regular encyclopedia."

  "Yes. Now, Nicholas, I need to prepare for a luncheon date. Did you have any other questions?"

  I thought about what she'd said. It mostly confirmed what I knew. But I did have one more.

  "How can I help you get a new house built here?"

  She sighed. "I'm afraid this is one of those cases where money simply won't be of any use. We own the property, of course, but your father is wary of stirring local resentment by just tearing down the place and starting over. And, you're quite right. It's a fire that's just waiting to happen. Your father even said the wiring is faulty."

  "Well, I don't want the place to burn down but..."

  "Yes. It's obviously a college term paper come to life."

  I laughed at that. "I have one more question for you."

  "Yes?"

  "Was my father angry at what I said to him on Saturday?" Whenever I talked to Lettie for very long, my high hat voice would come out. I was glad Carter wasn't around.

  She laughed. "Not really. When he told me what you had intimated about Louise and Ed sleeping in the guest room, unchaperoned, I had a good chuckle myself. He became rather indignant. I then proceeded to remind him that, if you hadn't taken advantage of the story, he would have worried that you were still suffering the effects of carbon monoxide poisoning. He reluctantly conceded the point."

  I laughed. "That's what Carter said."

  "He's very smart, your Carter."

  She was right about that.

  . . .

  "Yes, Mr. Williams?"

  "Did you talk to Marnie?"

  "Yes, sir, I did. She was very nice. And I talked to Susan about it. She called Bill. He's my son. Anyway, Bill got a little upset but that's him all over. After I get off my shift, I'm going over to stay with Bart while the two of them drive up to the Buick dealer in Monterey. Mrs. LeBeau"—that was Marnie's married name—"arranged everything with them. All they have to do is go in and
pick the car they want. I told her not to abuse the opportunity."

  "She sounds like a gal with a good head on her shoulders." I had no idea, but I figured Doreen would agree.

  "Oh, she is. My own daughter, Bea, that's short for Beatrice, her husband is in the Navy and they live in Hawaii, so I don't see her much. Bill can be a handful but Susan is a real gem." She paused. "Thank you so much, Mr. Williams. You have no idea how much this helps those two."

  "My pleasure, Doreen. Can you call the sheriff's office for me?"

  "Of course."

  After a couple of clicks, there were two rings and then a voice answered. "Monterey County Sheriff. Deputy Hollister speaking."

  To my surprise, I heard Doreen disconnect.

  "Hello? Anyone there?" Apparently, Deputy Hollister heard it too.

  "This is Nick Williams at The Condor's Nest on the Roosevelt Highway."

  "Yes, Mr. Williams?"

  "Is Deputy Forrester around?"

  "No, sir. He went home to get some sleep. Can I help you?"

  "Let him know that we found our trunk of clothes."

  "That so? He told me about that. Where was it?"

  "A little closet in the storeroom. The door was hidden by some wall panels."

  "Huh. Well, I'll tell him." He paused for a couple of beats. "Did I hear Doreen disconnect after she placed your call?"

  "Yeah, I think so."

  "I don't know what you did, but she never does that. That's the same as asking her to walk on water." He laughed. "You're in her good graces now, Mr. Williams. Enjoy it. The last person she did that for was Big John Reynolds. You know about him?"

  "I do. Sounds like he was quite a character."

  "You got it. My pop worked for him back in the 20s. Big John was always real good to my parents after that. And he did some favor for Doreen. None of us have ever been able to find out what it was, but she never once listened in on his calls."

  "I feel honored."

  "You should. Well, is there anything else I can help you with?"

  "How long a drive is it from here to Pfeiffer State Park?" I was thinking that might be a good drive and that I could stop at the diner down the road on the way.

  "Driving prudently, I'd say about thirty minutes. How do you like that Sunbeam?"

  "It handles well. But it's a little underpowered."

  "That's what I heard." He chuckled. "Around here, that's a good thing. You stick to about thirty miles per hour and you'll get there all safe and sound."

  "Thanks, Deputy."

  "You're welcome, Mr. Williams. I'll pass your message along to Deputy Forrester."

  The line went dead. I waited to confirm that Doreen wasn't on the line. After about ten seconds, I heard a click that told me she was coming back on the line before unplugging my cord at the switchboard. "Mr. Williams? Did you need to make another call?" She really had disconnected. I felt myself getting all choked up.

  I cleared my throat. "No, Doreen. I was just thinking and forgot to hang up."

  "You have a real good day."

  "Thanks, Doreen. You, too."

  Chapter 14

  Rocky Point Restaurant

  Roosevelt Highway

  Monday, November 14, 1955

  Just past noon

  "Here ya go, hon." That was the waitress. She put a plate down in front of me and asked, "Anything else?"

  My lunch consisted of broiled fish, green beans almondine, creamed spinach, and a couple of biscuits. It smelled good. I was hungry and ready to dig in. I looked up at her and smiled. "That'll do. Thanks."

  She winked and walked away, her hips swinging as she did.

  My table was facing the ocean, or what was left of it to see. The fog was definitely creeping forward. The restaurant sat out on a point and I could still see about a hundred feet of water in front of the thick fog bank. The sun was fading in and out as it made its way west-by-southwest across the sky. Right at that moment, its light was piercing through and reflecting off the blue water below.

  As I took my first bite of fish, the sun disappeared and the sky quickly darkened. It was if someone turned out about half the lights in the room. Having spent most of my life in fog, I knew that was the end of the sunshine for the day. I was hoping it would be back the next morning, but the weather down in Big Sur was different than up in the City, so I had no clear idea whether it would or wouldn't.

  I had brought in a book to read, so I opened it up on the table as I took another bite of fish. It was Marjorie Morningstar by Herman Wouk. It was something Carter had picked up a week or so before and had already read it. He'd said it depressed him and made him, once again, glad to be a homosexual. That comment got my attention, so I'd thrown it in my valise at the last minute and had found it when I was going through the trunk.

  I was a fast reader, for the most part, and had hit the middle of the third chapter by the time I was finished eating. I sighed as I closed the book and looked out the window. The fog was at the cliff's edge and it was darker than it had been earlier.

  I looked down at the book cover. I'd read Wouk's first novel, The Caine Mutiny, and had liked it. It was about the war. Captain Queeg, the book's protagonist, reminded me of a couple of lieutenants that I'd come across. I'd liked the movie with Humphrey Bogart. Carter had not been impressed.

  Three chapters into the author's latest bestseller and I wasn't that interested in Marjorie or her bickering with her mother and how worried her parents were about her riding in the park. But I decided I'd pick it back up later on. I wanted to find out what had made Carter say what he'd said.

  . . .

  The air was thick and foggy by the time I'd paid the bill and walked outside to get in the car.

  When I pressed on the starter, the engine turned over but didn't fire up. I counted to three and then pulled the choke out halfway. I then pressed on the starter again and that time it fired right up. Counting to three again, I pushed in the choke and let the engine warm up for a moment.

  I released the parking brake, depressed the clutch, and put the car in reverse. As I pressed on the brake to stop the car before shifting into first gear, it felt a little loose to me so, with the clutch pushed all the way in, I pumped the brakes a few times. They tightened up so I put the car in first, released the clutch, and made my way up the gravel drive and back to the highway.

  As I sat there, listening for oncoming traffic and trying to see headlights in the gloom, it occurred to me to head back to Carmel. But I wanted to do a little driving down the coast. Maybe, I thought, it would clear up as I went south. I knew better but then decided it didn't matter. I could drive down for a while and then turn around whenever I wanted.

  I pulled the switch out for the headlights and then pushed them back in one notch. With the parking lights on, I wouldn't get as much glare as I would have from the headlights. I looked to my left and listened. Once I was satisfied there was no oncoming traffic, I pulled out to the right and headed south.

  About a thousand feet from the restaurant, I crossed a bridge. Since the bridge was surrounded by fog, I had the feeling of driving through a cloud. I was already going slow. I was firmly in second and refused to shift up. That kept the car at around twenty without having to check the speedometer. As the concrete of the bridge turned back into asphalt, I thought I heard a noise in the engine or maybe the front axle. I let my right foot off the accelerator for a moment to see if I heard anything else.

  Satisfied, I pushed the accelerator forward and—

  Right out of nowhere a truck slammed into the back of the car, pushing it forward. I felt my neck snap forward. I could hear the engine whine as the engine R.P.M. was pushed up by the involuntary turn of the wheels. I glanced in the rear-view mirror and had a passing thought that it was an old farm truck I'd seen before. It was definitely a Ford. And it was green. And I could see a bit of rust around the F and the O on the hood.

  I tried to swerve to the right, but the truck followed me. I wondered if the truck's grill ha
d somehow caught on the rear bumper of the car but then I remembered how low the bumper was. Quickly glancing in the mirror, I could see that the truck was definitely not attached to the car. It was pushing the Sunbeam forward, having crushed in part of the trunk.

  I pressed on the brake, hoping that would have an effect. I heard the brake pads squealing against the pressure of the wheels that were moving because the truck was pushing the car forward. But it didn't slow anything down.

  I pulled up on the parking brake. That caused the Sunbeam to careen to the right in a very odd sort of way. I had a sense that the Ford truck would drive over the car if I kept that up, so I released it.

  After another second or two, the Ford slowed down. I exhaled, hoping that the driver had come to his or her senses.

  The truck moved over to the left and slammed against the side of the trunk, causing the car to move towards the right edge of the road. Before I could react, the Ford truck slammed the car in the same way again.

  That time, the Sunbeam wobbled over to the dirt shoulder and began to slow down a little.

  I pressed on the brakes and felt my foot hit the floor. I pulled up on the parking brake and the car careened to the right again, taking me closer to the edge.

  By that time, the Ford truck had lined up for another slam. Because it was coming around from the left, I couldn't open my door and roll out. The truck would have run right over me. Instead, I tried to turn the car to the left, hoping the truck would smash into the left side of the trunk and would then back off.

  As I turned the wheel, the Ford made contact. I could feel the control I had over the steering disappear as the wheels began to wobble violently in all directions. I couldn't see, but I had the sense that there wasn't much of a shoulder and that the car would be going over the edge, taking me with it.

  Right then, from out of nowhere, I heard a familiar voice say, "Lift up your arms."

  Not knowing what else to do, I did just that. After I let go of the steering wheel, the car made its way across the shoulder. I closed my eyes, not wanting to see what was coming and, as I did, I could feel the car falling out from underneath me but, in a way that didn't make sense, I wasn't falling. I seemed to be caught in something. As the edge of the car passed underneath my feet, one of my shoes got caught on the seat back and was yanked off with so much force, I was pretty sure my foot came off with it.