Irene sat on the mattress and flipped through the magazine. Arts and politics and enigmatic cartoons. Irene wondered if The New Yorker had been filched out of Oliver Paris’s mailbox by the departed squatter, or if Anne could have brought it here—or Nikki or Libby or one of the Strauss wives, or anyone else for that matter. But she was picturing Anne, like a latter day Goldilocks, walking through the woods and coming upon this cabin, climbing the ladder to this loft and making love here on this mattress with the now vanished interloper, then sitting side-by-side with him in the bed, reading together. The image was oddly domestic—Anne Paris perusing her father’s New Yorker by candlelight in the company of the bearded stranger.
Who was he, wondered Irene, and why had he fled? In her years of police work Irene had learned that things were usually as they seemed, it was the accurate interpretation of the what-seems-to-be that was elusive. What looked like flight could possibly be nothing more than the rush to keep an appointment or the normal behavior of a driver with a lead foot. Also, the imagined consequence which inspired seemingly guilty behavior could range across an enormous spectrum. A shoplifter might exhibit a murderer’s desperation. So to extrapolate culpability—or even knowledge—regarding Anne’s death from this man’s proximity and his precipitous departure, though tempting, was surely not the only way to read the little information Irene possessed.
Irene tried to think of what she knew for sure. Anne had been out sailing late on Saturday evening in the I-14 when a squall hit. The I-14 had capsized and had run aground on the beach not far below where Irene now sat, though the body was found miles north of here in the slough. Anne hadn’t drowned but she had inhaled some salt water. Death had come from a blow to the back of the head inflicted by an irregularly shaped blunt object. Anne’s relationship with her boyfriend was rocky. She was the apple of her father’s eye, the envy of her sister.
It would be interesting to find out the disposition of the considerable property belonging to Dr. Paris in the event of his death. Anne’s death might significantly change the future prospects of Leland and Libby.
And now this evidence, or suggestion anyway, that there might be another man, someone else figuring in the romantic landscape of Anne’s world. Greed and jealousy, as everyone knew, were the most likely motivators of violent acts.
There were, Irene decided, conversations she must continue with the Paris family and their guests. But sitting in the warm sunshine in the decrepit Donley cabin Irene felt doped and dull. There was no edge to her thinking. Dorothy in the field of poppies, powerless to resist the allure of slumber. She lay back on the mattress in the sun-drenched sleeping loft while flies bumbled lazily against the windowpanes.
XII
Alsatians were old-fashioned dogs, Irene thought, voguish in the middle of the last century—war dogs, police dogs, guide dogs—their popularity leading to over-breeding and genetic hip deformities. Poor Gus, Mr. Guevara’s German shepherd, ferocious black-masked head and threatening growl notwithstanding, wobbled on wasted hindquarters beside his owner’s left leg.
Standing on the verandah of the Guevara house looking out toward the Sound, you looked directly across the Paris slough. “It was a mistake, pure and simple,” Mr. Guevara was saying. “You can see, standing here, that if you ran the lot lines down to the water, that slough is mine. Ninety percent of it.”
“I don’t buy it,” said Irene. “You’re an attorney. Attorneys don’t make mistakes like that.”
“You overestimate me, Detective,” he said. “I was in love with that slough. I fell in love at first sight. Two years ago I stood exactly here, where we are now, in tall grass, no house, nothing, in the middle of twenty-seven enviable acres, and I looked out over all of this”—he swept an arm expansively north to south—“and I made a full price offer on the spot. My realtor blanched. It was impetuous, yes. Emotional, yes. And uncharacteristic, you’re right. I assumed—a mistake clients make, not me—I assumed that the lot lines did continue straight to the water and I assumed that the slough was mine along with the beach in front of it. It never crossed my mind it wasn’t until one morning there appears a post sunk into the middle of my path down there on the dune with a NO TRESPASSING sign nailed to it. My path. You have to understand that’s how I viewed it.”
The survey, Irene had determined, which had occurred the afternoon after the discovery of Anne’s body—only yesterday!— had been scheduled some time back, so the coincidence of timing was only that. A coincidence.
Mr. Guevara had shown her on the survey map, the way the Paris property line extended along the back side of the slough, running in front of his own property in an elongated triangle until it met the Sound. It was true that this seemed incongruous with the rectilinear geometry of the plats. Irene could see the plausibility of the mistake he described. But she was not wholly convinced.
“What’s the right of adverse possession?” she asked.
Mr. Guevara swung around to look at her directly. “Is that what they’re saying?” Irene didn’t answer and he turned again to the vista of lawn giving way to reeds ringing the slough, then the narrow isthmus of dune and beach and the Sound beyond. He shook his head wonderingly. After a moment he said, “You know, I was gearing up for a fight. That’s why I ordered the survey. I thought they were going to claim the right of adverse possession. They’ve been here since forever, you know, walking out there, picnicking, swimming. Isn’t that funny,” he said rhetorically. “Not many people know about that law.”
“Why did you take the wine up there yesterday?” Irene asked.
“Well, because of the survey, of course,” he replied. “I was conceding. I mean, you know, one thing about the practice of law, one doesn’t always win. I’m no stranger to losing, dear girl— though mind you, I’m more accustomed to winning,” he amended quickly, glancing her way.
Irene smiled. Dear girl. It was like being addressed in a Victorian novel as gentle reader. So quaintly condescending as to be endearing.
“I was absolutely certain,” he went on, “that the slough was mine. And the survey has demonstrated absolutely that it isn’t. A devastating loss, but one adjusts, you know. It’s an esthetic asset after all and one I can possess without owning. I mean, it’s my view, it’s what I see. It’s the look of the place I value, the way the water reflects the sky, the changing seasons, the color of the reeds, the waterfowl it attracts. It’s highly personal. You might not grasp that notion,” he added.
“Maybe not,” agreed Irene, though she thought she did. She liked the look of it too, more gloomy and brooding than the bright water of the Sound.
“Yesterday,” she said, “when you took them the wine, you didn’t go out to the road and walk down their drive, you walked out across the disputed stretch of beach and up their orchard path.”
“Indeed,” he said.
“Why?” she asked.
“Why not?” he countered. “It was a neighborly visit.”
What a fox, she thought. Conceding, yes, but assertive in his neighborliness. “And you offered condolences,” she said.
“Well, of course,” he said. “They’ve just had this ghastly loss. I’m a practical man, Detective Chavez, not heartless. Cold, some might say, but they’d be wrong—I too have feelings.”
“Where did you get the wine?” Irene asked.
He turned, looking directly at her. “What an astonishing question,” he said, “Why ever do you ask?”
Irene didn’t answer.
“That was a very elegant bottle of wine,” he said. “It didn’t come from Safeway.”
“I presumed not,” said Irene. “Where did you get it?”
“McCarthy and Shiering perhaps,” he said after a moment, “up in Seattle. Queen Anne Hill. But I no longer recall. I buy a lot of wine. Living out here one keeps a bit of a cellar. I went down to the cellar and chose something I thought he’d like.”
Driving down the Fergus Point Road, Irene had overtaken Mr. Guevara walking with Gus at his si
de. She’d slowed and stopped and had left her car at the junction where his driveway met the road in order to accompany him on foot as he continued down the long, meandering approach to his house.
She felt addled and inept, having awakened from a troubled sleep in the warm loft of the Donley cabin where she had dreamt of being pursued through an entangling forest by the man from the beach. Branches reached out, tripping her, and she tumbled into a thicket where she lay hidden, her heart thudding as she watched him pass. She wanted to shoot but was afraid to move. Then her gun was in her hands and she was drawing a bead on the back of his head. He turned around and it wasn’t the man from the beach at all, but a seal looking reproachfully over its shoulder at her. Then the scene shifted and she was on the beach aiming her pistol at the seal out in the water. Dr. Paris was running toward her shouting, “No!” Startled, she turned her head and as she did so the gun leapt in her hands, there was a report and a crimson eruption in the water where the seal had been. Irene woke in a sweat.
Even now, she couldn’t quite shake the residue of guilt and unease left by the dream. She had seized the opportunity which the encounter with Mr. Guevara provided to delay once again her inquiries into the Paris family. Irene wondered if she were getting sick. Maybe a sinus infection would account for this feeling of imbalance. She thought again of Dorothy overcome in the field of poppies. She had to pull herself together.
“Do you mind if I sit down a moment?” Irene asked. Behind where they were standing an inviting row of wicker chairs was lined up along the verandah.
Mr. Guevara turned and studied her. “My dear, of course not. You must come in,” he said, and took her by the elbow and guided her along the verandah and through open French doors into the house. The living room was like a hotel lobby, populated with a grand piano and groupings of large, chintz-covered furniture. He led her to a chair in the corner of the room where a massive telescope was positioned next to the window.
“Tea, Detective Chavez?” he asked, “or coffee? I make a lovely espresso.”
“Oh, yes,” said Irene. “Coffee would be great.”
Released from his leash, Gus climbed onto a sofa, turned in a circle and collapsed with his chin on the cushioned arm.
After a few minutes Mr. Guevara reappeared carrying Italian demitasse on a silver tray. He sat opposite her and Irene took the cup he offered in both her hands, breathing in the steam and aroma. In spite of herself, she was disarmed by his solicitude. She couldn’t think when she’d last felt so looked after. He might, she thought, studying him, be close to seventy. And still a handsome man, olive-skinned with a patrician nose and a flat, wide mouth. Maybe something of the Aztec in him. He was wearing a light cotton safari jacket over a blue oxford shirt, khaki pants, and leather fisherman’s sandals. He had taken off the Panama hat as he came indoors and she noticed that his thinning gray hair was combed back and caught into a short, sparse ponytail, which surprised her. He seemed in other respects a thoroughly conventional man. A ceiling fan circulated slowly, stirring the air.
“What do you look at?” she asked, indicating the telescope.
“This time of year, the Pleiades. Spectacular meteor showers in the Pleiades each August. The moons of Jupiter. If it’s clear one has good viewing here. There’s not much ambient light.”
“May I take a look?” Irene asked.
“Well, you may, but there’s nothing to see. One has to wait until dark.”
Even so, Irene moved to a straight-backed chair and bent her head to the view-finder of the telescope. It was true that she saw nothing in the heavens except gauzy blue. But when she tilted the telescope downward and adjusted the knob, the trees on the Long Branch Peninsula opposite jumped into focus. She raised her head and looked at him.
“Were you able,” Irene asked, “to see Anne sailing on Saturday evening?”
“I watched her go out, yes,” Mr. Guevara replied carefully. “She paddled out in a canoe, tied up to the buoy and clambered aboard the sailboat. I’ve watched her often. It’s the neighborly thing to do.”
“How so?” asked Irene.
There was a silence while Mr. Guevara seemed to consider what to say next. “There used to be,” he began, “years ago— many years ago—a house here on this site. House perhaps is the wrong word. A cabin. A handmade A-frame.” He looked at her. “Have you heard this story?”
“No.”
“It might surprise you to know that I’ve become acquainted with the year-rounders here. I am myself a year-rounder, when it comes down to it. The Paris family and the Strausses, all the summer people, they’re standoffish, exclusive. They don’t mingle. But I’m retired, I live here full time. And I’ve embraced life down here. I’m one of them now, to some degree. I’m interested, you see, and I inquire. People tell me things. History. Gossip. Oliver Paris, for instance, wouldn’t think a thing of it if he saw Jill Wozniak from up the road headed to town driving the pickup, her husband Roy riding shotgun. I happen to know, though, that Roy’s spitting nails. He can’t stand it. Jill’s behind the wheel because Roy’s license was suspended back in April when he got pulled over and refused a Breathalyzer.” He looked at Irene. “As law enforcement you might know that, of course, or surmise it.”
Irene laughed. “Maybe.”
“But the story I want to tell you,” he went on, “is something else. In the forties there was a house just about here, a summer house, owned by the Gillettes, a family from Seattle. One August evening that family sat on the bluff here on the porch in front of their cabin and watched while their teenaged son went out sailing. A wind comes up. The sky darkens and the water changes color. Far out they watch the sail race and dip—then vanish. There’s no phone, no other vessel to paddle or row to the rescue, no way to summon help. There’s nothing they can do. From this perfect vantage they are an audience to their son’s drowning.” Mr. Guevara paused. He looked, Irene thought, quite stricken.
After a moment he continued. “The house fell into disrepair— haunted, people said—and eventually it burned to the ground. Arson? More bad luck? No one knows. The Gillette family never returned. The land stood vacant until I came along. Some people said I was foolish to buy, that there was a jinx.” Mr. Guevara turned and looked at Irene. “I’m sure it could be interpreted as bizarre in its way and not very wholesome, certainly out of character, but, yes, I watched Anne. I watched her often. It felt like a duty that had somehow fallen to me, that had come with the territory, an obligation to watch over her. I was afraid of the jinx.
“In fact, I knew her,” he added after a moment. “You may not know that,” checking her reaction. Irene kept her face neutral and he continued. “She was cordial. Not like her father. There have been occasions when we’ve spoken. You know, I’d see her on the road or on the beach. She introduced herself. Very straightforward, very charming. Lovely. She’s come to the house and sat here, like you. I was captivated.” Mr. Guevara looked at Irene. “And yes, I watched her sailing on Saturday evening. I have a skiff down there on my buoy and I always felt that if something untoward were to happen, I would be able to help.”
“On Saturday evening did you see anything untoward happen?” asked Irene.
“No,” he said. “Whatever happened, happened out of my sight. She tacked back and forth for a while out here where I could see her, then sailed south, wing on wing, flying before the wind, and disappeared behind the land mass of Fergus Point.”
“What’s wing on wing?” Irene asked.
“The jib’s out to one side and the mainsail on the other. You can only do that sailing directly ahead of the wind.”
“Was she alone?”
“Oh, yes,” he said without hesitation.
“Did you think she was in trouble or having trouble or that anything was amiss?”
“No,” he said. “If I had, I’d have done something.” He was quiet a moment then added, “But it was a very big wind.”
Mr. Guevara had placed a strip of lemon peel on her saucer and I
rene twisted it over her cup and watched the atomized oil film the surface of her espresso. “When Anne came here to the house did she talk about the property dispute?” she asked.
“No.”
“What did she talk about?”
“She was having difficulties with her boyfriend.”
“What did she have to say about that?”
“He had been unfaithful and she was quite sad and affronted.” Saying this, Mr. Guevara sounded affronted himself, as though he too were wronged by Ira’s Ecuadorian affair.
“Did her father know she was coming here?” asked Irene.
“I never asked but I presume not,” he said. “Anne was lonely and at a very vulnerable moment, and she was drawn to me,” he went on, “but you have to understand, she was a good deal younger and there was no impropriety. She confided in me, that’s all.” He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “To tell you the truth,” he said, “I’m quite devastated.”
XIII
Walking back to where she’d left her car, Irene mused about the clandestine friendship between the patrician Puerto Rican attorney and the alluring young doctor, of which Oliver Paris would surely not have approved. Nor, Irene thought, would Mr. Guevara be pleased to learn what she herself now surmised about an interloper in the Donley cabin and Anne’s presence there. To Irene it seemed vaguely Shakespearian, two old men feuding over an acre of water and a useless isthmus of land, both besotted with the duplicitous Anne, and meanwhile all manner of subplots playing out in the forest. She wondered if Ira knew or cared.
DR. PARIS was not in his study. Irene tapped and when there was no answer she pushed the door open and looked in. His chair was empty, the room vacant, the table top bare. She looked at her watch. Her day had started early and she’d lost track of time but it wasn’t yet eleven. The coffee had helped—Mr. Guevara indeed made a lovely espresso—and she was feeling more herself, alert and curious now as to the whereabouts of the doctor, whose schedule, she had been led to believe, even in grief, was inviolate.
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