by Janet Dawson
“Thanks for the offer of a bed,” I said. “I’ll take you up on it.”
I looked up just as several people entered the Latte Da and approached the counter. The two middle-aged women in front were talking about Western tanagers. More birders. The tall man was Dad. He didn’t see me. He had his nose in a copy of a slim book, Sierra Birds. He turned to the younger man next to him and showed him a page in the book. Dad’s companion was very attractive, I thought, my gaze lingering. Like my father, he was tall, and his rangy frame filled out a pair of dark khaki hiking pants and a green T-shirt. His hair was dark and curly. He had a nice smile as he nodded, flipped to another page in the birding book and pointed at something.
“There’s my father.” I stood and waved both hands to catch Dad’s attention.
Pearl turned to look at the counter. “Well, I’ll be jiggered. He’s with my grandson.” She upped the volume. “Hey, Danny!”
The dark-haired man spotted her and grinned. Dad waved back, looking surprised to see me. They stepped up to the counter and ordered. Then, with coffee containers in hand, they walked over to join us. As they got closer, I saw that they both wore the same green T-shirt, with a legend that read, LIFE IS GOOD. EAT. SLEEP. BIRD. I’d given Dad the shirt for his birthday, along with a matching baseball cap.
Pearl’s grandson leaned over and kissed her. “Hey, Grandma,” he said in a pleasant baritone. “Did you clean ’em out at poker?”
“Got a queen-high straight flush. Had more chips than I did when I started.”
“What are you doing here?” Dad asked me.
“You haven’t checked the messages on your cell phone,” I said. “Dad, this is Pearl Bishop.”
“Pearl Bishop?” he repeated. “Mom’s friend?”
“The same,” Pearl said. “Danny, this is my friend Jeri Howard and the fella you’re with is her dad.”
“Dan Westbrook,” he said with a smile and a firm handshake. He and Dad pulled out chairs and joined us at the table.
Pearl beamed as she gazed at Dad. “Timmy Howard. I’d know you anywhere. You look so much like your father. You were about twelve the last time I saw you. Jerusha and Ted drove down to LA with you and your kid sister, Caroline.”
A slow smile spread over Dad’s face. “I remember that vacation. You took us to Disneyland and Knott’s Berry Farm.”
Pearl nodded. “And the Santa Monica Pier. You’re about four years older than my son Carl, Danny’s dad. I live with him and his wife now. He’s a ranger at Mono Lake.”
“Your father told me about you,” Dan said. “He says you’re a private investigator.”
“Yes, I am. And you?”
“I bird and hike, and try to make a living at it. I do some writing. I’m here to lead some of the Bird Chautauqua field trips. Your father and I ran into each other over at the bookstore and got to talking.”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “Dan Westbrook. Did you write a hiking guide to Point Reyes National Seashore?”
“That’s me.”
He smiled again. Such a nice smile. He was about my age, with laugh lines around his blue eyes and some silver threading his dark brown hair. Get a grip, Jeri, I told myself. He’s probably married. I didn’t see a wedding band on his left hand, though.
“I have a copy of your book on my shelf,” I said. “I love Point Reyes. In April, I hiked the Tomales Point Trail. The wildflowers were spectacular.”
“It’s one of my favorite hikes in the spring,” Dan said. “I have a place over there, near Point Reyes Station. It’s just a cabin, really, for weekends. I live in Berkeley.”
“I’m in Oakland.”
We talked about some of his other favorite hikes, in the Bay Area and the Eastern Sierra. This was his fourth year leading field trips at the Bird Chautauqua. His first outing was to Rush Creek, one of the streams feeding into Mono Lake. Dad was signed up for that trip and he and the other birders were scheduled to meet Dan at 6:30 A.M. tomorrow, at the Lee Vining Community Center.
“Are you coming to the dinner tomorrow night?” Dan asked Pearl.
“Wouldn’t miss it.” She squeezed his hand.
Dan explained that the Chautauqua tradition was a kick-off dinner on Friday night. “If you’d like to join us, I can arrange it,” he added.
“That would be nice,” I said. “But if you can’t, don’t worry about it. I don’t know how long I’ll be here.”
“Where are you staying?” Dad asked. “My cabin’s just one room, but we could improvise. Did you bring your sleeping bag and mattress?”
“I did, but Pearl has invited me to stay with her.”
“That’s right,” Pearl said, glancing at her watch. “And we’d better get going. Dan’s dad will be home from work soon and we’re having barbecued chicken. Tim, you’re coming for dinner. No arguments.”
Dad grinned. “You’ll get none.”
Chapter 25
Outside the coffee shop Dan and Pearl got into a green Subaru wagon parked near my Toyota. I followed his car to a rambling one-story wood frame house a few blocks to the west. The old house looked as though it had been added to several times over the years. I parked and took my overnight bag from the trunk. Dan, with Pearl on his arm, waited near the front door. He shepherded us inside, to a spacious, comfortable living room with a fireplace, shelves on either side holding framed photos, books, pottery and baskets. More pictures were lined up on the mantel.
A medium-sized mutt greeted us with a wagging tail. Her rough coat was a mixture of black, tan and rust, and she had one ear pointing up, the other flopping over, giving her a rakish look.
“This is Tinkerbell,” Pearl said. “She’s a good dog.”
Tinkerbell agreed, chiming in with a friendly woof. She nuzzled my hand. I scratched her behind the ears and her tail wagged even faster. Then I set my overnight bag in the hallway leading back to the bedrooms.
“That you, Pearl?” a voice called from the back of the house.
“Me and Dan,” Pearl said. “And we’ve got company.”
Tinkerbell trotted ahead of us through a dining room, into a big kitchen. An older woman, her shoulder-length black hair threaded with gray, stood at a work island, spreading cream cheese frosting on a two-layer carrot cake. The news of me as houseguest, and two extra people for dinner didn’t faze Loretta Westbrook. She wiped her hands on a dish towel and said hello, a smile on her strong-featured face.
Dan’s index finger hovered over the frosting and she moved to intercept him. “Don’t you stick your finger in that bowl. You can have it when I’m done, but not until.”
“My favorite,” Dan said with a grin.
“You’d eat a roof shingle if it had cream cheese frosting on it,” his mother told him. “We’ll have garlic bread and salad to go with the chicken.” She waved her spatula at the stainless steel double sink, where a head of romaine lettuce, already rinsed, sat waiting in a colander, with salad vegetables and an avocado. There was a loaf of sourdough bread on the counter. “Your dad’s on his way home and he’s bringing Holly. Better fire up the grill.”
“Okay,” Dan said. He went outside. Tinkerbell noisily lapped water from a big bowl. Then she curled up in a thick plush dog bed in one corner of the kitchen.
“May I help?” I asked.
“You could set the table.” Loretta put the last flourish on her cake and set the spatula and bowl at the end of the counter. She pointed me toward a cupboard. “Dishes above, and silverware in the drawer below, and placemats in the drawer next to that. There will be seven of us.”
“Tim and I will make the salad,” Pearl said. She pointed at the cupboard above the refrigerator. “Tim, there’s a big wooden bowl up there. I can’t reach it without a step stool, but maybe you can.”
Dad removed the bowl and carried it to the kitchen table. I found what I needed and set the oval oak table in the dining room. When I returned to the kitchen, Dad and Pearl were talking a mile a minute while they made the salad. Loretta minced fresh garlic, mixed it with
softened butter, and spread it between the slices of sourdough bread.
Dan leaned against the counter, bowl in hand, scraping out the remnants of the frosting with his index finger. He caught my eye and grinned, looking for all the world like a kid. “Want some?”
If I’d been at home, I’d be right there with him. Instead I shook my head. “I like a little cake with my frosting. You go ahead.”
“Just as well. It’s all gone.” He licked the last morsel from his finger and moved toward the sink, where he washed the bowl and set it in the dish drainer. He dried his hands on a nearby towel, took a foil-covered pan from the refrigerator, then grabbed tongs from a crock on the counter. “Jeri, would you get the door?”
“Sure.” I opened the screen door and followed him out to the covered patio. Two hummingbird feeders filled with sugar water hung from hooks on the longest horizontal beam. A picnic table stood in the center of the patio, near a large propane gas grill, its lid open, with shelves extending on either side. Dan set the pan on the right shelf and held his hand over the grill itself, feeling the heat.
“How long have your folks lived in Lee Vining?” I asked.
Dan folded back the foil, revealing chicken pieces marinating in a thick, dark red sauce. With tongs, he transferred chicken to the grill. “Mom was born and raised here. This house belonged to her parents and grandparents. My Grandma Nelly, Mom’s mother, was Northern Paiute. Her people, the Kutzadika’a, have lived around Mono Lake for thousands of years.”
I’d heard of the Kutzadika’a, also called the Mono Lake Indian Community, the remnants of the group that had summered at the lake, moving to the forested regions in the autumn. When gold and silver were discovered on the high plateaus to the north, the lives of the Kutzadika’a were forever altered. The forests that sheltered them in winter were logged for mining timber, and their food supply dwindled, dispersing the community. There weren’t many Kutzadika’a left in this area, but those who remained sought federal recognition of their tribe.
“Your father grew up in Hollywood because of Pearl’s acting career,” I said. “How did he get from there to Mono Lake, and meet your mother?”
Dan smiled. “When Dad was a kid, he spent most of his summers with Grandma Pearl’s folks in Lone Pine. So he’s always liked the Eastern Sierra. After high school he did a tour in the Army, in Vietnam. When he got out he went to college on the GI Bill, at Sacramento State, studying biology and geology. One summer he had a job here at the Inyo National Forest, at Mammoth Lakes. He met Mom and discovered she was at Sac State, too. So here we are, nearly forty years later. Dad’s been with the Forest Service most of that time. Mom teaches at Lee Vining High School.”
“You must have moved around quite a bit when you were growing up.”
Dan nodded. “At national forests all over Northern California. When Dad was at Shasta-Trinity National Forest, we lived in Redding, which is where I graduated from high school. That’s how I come by my love of the outdoors. We were always going hiking and camping. Mom and Dad were glad to get back to this side of the Sierra, at Inyo where he started out. Now he’s at Mono. They’ll retire here in Lee Vining, because of the house. I’m going to get a beer. Want one?”
“I’d love one, thanks.”
Dan went inside. I heard the distinctive buzz of a hummingbird and looked up just as the tiny green bird swooped in and landed at one of the feeders. It was a male Anna’s hummingbird, with a distinctive iridescent red gorget. I watched as it stuck its long beak into the feeder, then zoomed off.
I walked out to the backyard, covered with native grasses rather than a lawn. Mono Lake was visible to the east, flat and blue in the afternoon sunshine. To the south, ancient volcanic cones rose, stark and bare, silent and inactive now, but looking as though they could erupt at any moment. The Mono Craters had been quiet for thousands of years, but Panum, close to the lake’s south shore, had erupted about 500 years ago, blowing out debris and leaving a huge crater surrounding the collapsed lava dome. The most recent volcanic activity had been about 250 years ago, when a series of eruptions on the lakebed brought Paoha Island to the surface and then higher.
Near the fence line, posts held bird houses and feeders, the latter hosting an assortment of birds. Half barrels and plastic containers held colorful flowers, while a vegetable garden had been fenced to prevent deer and other critters from munching the plants down to a nub.
At the back of the lot, several Jeffrey pines lofted skyward. One low branch of an oak tree held a swing, two lengths of rope attached to a wooden seat smoothed by generations of bottoms. I sat down and pushed off with my feet. The rope creaked as I swung back and forth. A makeshift ladder had been affixed to the oak’s thick trunk. I leaned back and spotted a tree house nestled in the tree’s higher branches. It looked as though it had been there for a long time.
I heard a rapping sound and looked for the source. On a bare branch near the top of the oak I spotted the red cap on the head of a black-and-white acorn woodpecker. Then a twig snapped behind me. I stopped the swing’s motion, and stood up. Dan had returned, a bottle in either hand. He handed one to me. I examined the label, Mammoth Brewing Company’s Double Nut Brown. I took a sip. “Nice,” I said.
“Yeah, it’s one of my favorites.”
“That, and cream cheese frosting.” I pointed upwards. “Who built the tree house?”
“Mom and her brothers, when they were kids.” Dan took a swallow of beer. “It’s been well-used by several generations, on both sides. Right now the grandkids like it.” The back door opened and closed with a creak and a slap, and Tinkerbell loped across the back yard, flushing birds from the feeders. “There’s Dad.”
Carl Westbrook’s face was tanned and seamed from many years spent in the sun and he had eyes like his mother, blue and twinkling with good humor. He was tall, his gray hair still thick, though receding from his high forehead. He had changed into faded jeans and a T-shirt.
“Great to meet you and your dad,” Carl said as he shook my hand. “Mom’s talked about your grandmother a lot. They kept in touch over the years. And I remember her and your father from that summer they visited us.”
The chicken on the grill sizzled and popped. It smelled delicious and it had been a long time since lunch. Dan set his beer on the table and picked up the tongs, turning over the pieces. “This chicken is almost ready. Hope you’ve got an appetite.”
Carl took a sip of Dan’s beer. “I do indeed. I’ll go wash up and help your mom.”
Dan and his father went into the house, followed by the dog. Dan returned a moment later with a platter. He removed the chicken from the grill and turned off the gas. The rest of the meal waited on the dining room table. Tinkerbell hovered in the doorway, hopeful of cadging a bite, but Loretta sent her back to the kitchen. Carl said grace, blessing the food and the company, and we sat down to eat.
As the food was passed around, I helped myself to a chicken breast, garlic bread and salad. Dad and Dan were on the opposite side of the table, talking about birding and the field trips scheduled for tomorrow. I sat between Pearl and Carl’s guest, Holly McGinnis, who was about my age, with short, curly blond hair and brown eyes in a tanned face. She was a state park ranger, at Bodie State Historic Park, the largest and best-preserved ghost town in the American West.
I’d visited Bodie several times and the place had cast a spell on me, because of its fascinating history and current state of “arrested decay,” a description coined by the State of California when it took possession of the town in the early 1960s. Bodie, isolated on a high plateau, had sprung to life in 1861 with the discovery of gold. Another rich vein of ore had been located in 1874. At the height of the boom, the town had 10,000 residents, some respectable, others less so. Bodie had sixty-five saloons, numerous brothels and opium dens, and reportedly one murder a day. As happened with many mining towns, the gold ore that had been so plentiful finally dwindled and the gold-seekers moved on to other strikes. Fire took its toll, and remaini
ng buildings were abandoned as people left the area. The last residents departed in the 1940s, leaving behind houses and stores that still had furniture and goods on the shelves.
When I thought of Bodie, I pictured weathered, empty buildings inhabited only by barn swallows and ghosts. But that wasn’t really the case. Plenty of tourists made the thirteen-mile trek off Highway 395 to visit Bodie. Rangers assigned to the park lived there as well.
“What do you do all winter?” I asked. “I’m sure you get most of your visitors from spring to autumn, but I can’t imagine braving that road in the winter. Even in good weather you’ve got to take it slow on that last stretch.” The last three miles leading into the park are unpaved, with ruts that are hard on a car’s undercarriage, particularly if traveling faster than ten or fifteen miles an hour.
Holly grinned. “The park’s open, but you’ve got to be able to get in, with snow transportation, because the snow’s too deep for even a four-wheel drive. We do get visitors, though. Photographers just love Bodie with all that snow. Me, I find plenty to do. I read a lot. And play Scrabble. One of the other rangers is a Scrabble nut. I’ve gotten pretty good at it. I got tired of being whupped.”
“In her later years, my mother was quite the Scrabble player,” Pearl said. “She and her sister, my Aunt Katie, would get into arguments and accuse one another of making up words. My land, you should have heard them when they were going at it hammer and tongs. Now me, I never was much good at Scrabble. Poker’s my game.”
“Yeah, Mom.” Carl winked. “I hear stories all over town, people talking about you taking quarters off folks down at the Latte Da.”
“Keeps me off the streets.” Pearl winked back. “Maybe we can play a few hands after dinner.”
“I’ve got a pocketful of change,” I said, wiping barbecue sauce from my fingers.
“I’ll pass,” Dad said. “You always beat me at poker. Besides, early to bed for me, what with that birding trip tomorrow morning.”
Dan nodded. “For the next three days. Early morning’s the best time to bird. You said you’re going on the June Lake field trip Saturday morning. There’s a bald eagle’s nest with an eaglet, in a dead tree on a hill above the lake.”