Cold Trail

by Janet Dawson

  Sheila sighed. “I know it sounds crazy to hold a grudge. But I guess I’ve always felt...well, Becca’s so elegant and glamorous. She’s the rich girl from the Bay Area and I’m the hick from the Central Valley. It isn’t logical. But she makes me feel that way. She acts like she’s bored with Lance and she could just move in on Brian again. The way she puts her hand on his arm and leans toward him. Sometimes I think she’s trying to take him away from me.”

  “That’s not going to happen,” I said.

  “Or has it already?” Sheila shot back. “You don’t know. Maybe Becca and Brian are using this Willow as a go-between. Even if they’re not, who is this Willow person and where does she get off writing to my husband? None of this makes any sense.”

  “Sheila, I know you’re upset, but the possibility of Brian having an affair wouldn’t explain the MedicAlert bracelet on the boat.”

  “With a corpse,” she finished. “Oh, God, listen to me.” Tears leaked from her eyes and she put her head down on her hands and cried.

  “You’ve got to hold it together,” I told her. “I know it’s hard, but you have to do it.”

  She sat upright and wiped tears from her face. “I had to call the principal of his new school this morning and say that Brian can’t keep his appointment. I didn’t know what to say when the man asked why. I told him some story about Brian being sick. What am I going to do if Brian doesn’t come home? I’m a stay-at-home mom. Without Brian’s salary... We have some savings, but...I’d have to go back to work, and child care for the kids...”

  “Don’t worry about that now. You’re getting ahead of yourself. Let’s focus on finding out what happened to Brian. Now, I’ve learned a thing or two. Willow—Martha Newman—is the daughter of the man who owns Newman’s Marina down in Lakeville. That’s the place where the boat and the body were found.”

  Interest sparked in Sheila’s eyes. “You think there’s a connection?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Newman’s Marina,” Sheila said. “I read something about that in the newspaper. Some land use controversy.”

  I nodded. “Mr. Newman wants to buy a parcel south of his current location, so he can expand. The local environmental groups are fighting it, because they want to preserve the land. Yesterday, while I was in the real estate office talking with Lance, Becca came in. She was talking about Newman’s Marina. Evidently she’s involved in the fight against the marina’s expansion plans. She told me the marina is a big polluter, the kind of stuff you get when you have boats, paint, solvents, all of those with a potential to get spilled into the Petaluma River. Plus, there’s a bar next to the marina. It seems to be a biker hangout. Though when I was out there it didn’t look any worse than some of the bars I’ve been in.”

  “So where does Willow factor into all of this?” Sheila asked.

  “I asked both Lance and Becca if they knew anyone named Willow. Becca said she didn’t, but I’m sure she wasn’t telling the truth.”

  Sheila made a rude noise. “If Becca’s fighting Newman’s expansion plans, and Willow is Newman’s daughter, you can bet Becca knows it. So she’s lying to you.”

  “That’s what I figure. The question is why. I’ll have a talk with her later this afternoon. Is she a stay-at-home mom?”

  “So to speak,” Sheila said. “Becca’s got her fingers in a lot of pies. She volunteers for all sorts of organizations, especially the environmental ones. But she’s at home more often now, while her daughter, Lucy, is out of school.”

  “Where do the Coverdells live?”

  “On B Street near Sixth. They invited us over for dinner right after we moved here.” Sheila gave me the address. “The house is in the middle of the block, one of those ornate Victorians with bright colors, yellow with purple trim. You can’t miss it. There’s an orange climbing rose on one side of the front door.”

  “I’ll head over there. But first, I need to let the kids show me the squirrels.”

  I helped myself to another peanut butter cookie. Then I went outside to the backyard, for a conversation about squirrels and other critters.

  Sixteen

  The Coverdells’ house was on the edge of the historic district of downtown Petaluma, a collection of homes and other buildings constructed between the 1860s and the 1920s. The house was built in the Victorian style known as “Stick,” which had a decorative grid of raised boards called “stick work” overlaying the clapboards. It had a steep gabled roof and a boxy bay window on the left of the front door. The exterior paint was indeed a bright sunshiny yellow, with trim in a dark purple as well as a lighter mauve. To the right of the small porch, a high trellis supported the climbing rose, its petals deep orange verging on red. A driveway to the right of the climbing rose led back to a detached garage. Two cars were parked in the drive, a late model light blue Prius hatchback, evidently Becca’s car, and behind this, a red Honda Civic.

  I found a parking space on the same side of the street as the house and shut off the engine. I had just opened my car door when the front door opened. Becca stepped onto the porch, followed by another woman and two young girls. I recognized the blond girl from the photo on her father’s desk. This was Lucy, the Coverdells’ daughter. The other woman and the second little girl looked like mother and daughter, both short with dark hair. The four of them stood on the porch for another minute, talking. Then the dark-haired woman and the two girls went down the front steps, heading for the Honda.

  Becca stood at the front door, watching them drive off. Then she stepped into the house briefly and came out again, her large white shoulder bag swinging at her side. She shut the front door and locked it, slipping the keys into her shoulder bag as she walked down the steps. She turned at the sidewalk and walked along B Street, heading toward downtown. I got out of my car and followed her. The melon-colored shirt she wore was easy to keep in view. Was she going to Lance’s office? No, she wasn’t. When she reached South Petaluma Boulevard, she turned north and meandered slowly along this downtown main drag, window shopping mostly, but occasionally going into stores.

  Midway down the block between Western and Washington avenues, she passed Putnam Plaza Park, near the Petaluma Pie Company where I’d met Donna for pie and coffee on Tuesday. Becca walked past the little park. A few doors down she turned left and walked into the Della Fattoria bakery and café. The sign in the front window said the café was open for lunch until four. It was just after three. But Becca wasn’t having lunch. Instead she stepped up to the counter that ran along one wall, chatting with the man behind the counter as she selected a loaf of bread and several other items. She paid him and put her purchases into a nylon shopping bag that she pulled from her purse.

  When Becca left the bakery, she reached into the bag and took out a cupcake decorated with swirls of dark chocolate frosting. She pulled off one side of the paper wrapping and took a bite. I recognized the look that passed over her face—chocolate-sugar-rush nirvana.

  Then she set out in the direction she had come. I waylaid her a few steps past the bakery. “Hello, Becca.”

  She looked at me, startled. “Jeri. What a surprise to see you.”

  “I have a few questions for you.”

  Her face turned wary. “About what?”

  “Willow. Her real name is Martha Newman. She’s Walt Newman’s daughter. But you already knew that. So why did you tell me you didn’t know who Willow is?”

  “I wasn’t sure,” she said, hedging.

  “I’m not buying that.” I gestured in the direction of the little park. “Have a seat and finish your cupcake. You and I are going to have a conversation.”

  Becca stared back at me. Then she sighed. “I can’t really tell you very much.”

  “Tell me what you know.”

  There was a fountain in the center of the park. Becca took a seat on the concrete rim, trailing her fingers through the water. “Willow is a potter. She’s very talented. At least I think so. I met her last year at a gallery in Occidental. I bought
one of her pieces, a bowl.”

  “Are you friends?”

  “Casual acquaintances, hardly friends. I see her from time to time, at that gallery. Or here in town. Sometimes we have coffee. But it’s a spur-of-the-moment thing.” Becca took another bite of her cupcake and wiped a streak of chocolate frosting from her mouth.

  “When did you find out she was Walt Newman’s daughter?”

  “Sometime during the spring. That’s when this issue over the marina expansion came up. Willow said something in passing, about her father. And I realized the connection. I was hoping it would prove useful, that she’d give me some information that we could use to stop the marina expansion plans.”

  “How did that work?”

  “It didn’t,” Becca said. “Willow’s estranged from her father, has been for some time. And from her older brother as well. My impression was that the old man favored the brother over Willow, and that was the reason for the bad feeling between them. But the brother’s dead now. She said he was killed in a traffic accident.”

  “What about Lance?” I asked.

  “What about him?” Becca looked alarmed. “He doesn’t know Willow.”

  “He might. Lance grew up in Petaluma, went to school here. The brother’s name was Rick. He was about Lance’s age, and Willow’s just a couple of years younger. So Lance may know them from school.”

  “You’ll have to ask him that. I really have to get home. Lucy’s due back from her outing and I need to be there.”

  “Not so fast. Willow and Brian. Did she ever mention how she knows him?”

  Becca sighed. “She met him sometime last spring, when he bought a mug from her at a craft fair. She was attracted to him.”

  “She told you that?”

  “Yes. She said she’d met this schoolteacher in Sonoma, and he was married, but she thought he was such a nice guy. I asked her what his name was. She said Brian. I figured out it was the Brian we knew. Then maybe a month later, she mentioned that she’d had coffee with him. Just by chance, she said. I told her then she should back off. But I guess she didn’t.” Becca licked frosting from the top of the cupcake, then she put it back in the paper bag. “I did see them having coffee a few weeks ago, at a place just up the street. I wondered about that.”

  “Wondered about what?”

  “Whether they were having a fling. She really likes him.”

  Sheila was wondering the same thing, after finding the note Willow had sent to Brian. “She sent him a card, like the ones you had in your purse yesterday.”

  “I got those at Hestia Gallery in Occidental, the one that carries Willow’s work. I didn’t know she was going to write to him.”

  “How did she get his address?”

  Becca sighed. “The last time she and I got together for coffee, Willow brought up the subject and I mentioned that Brian and Sheila were moving into our rental house here in Petaluma. She knows the house because another friend of hers rented it from us a couple of years. Telling her that Brian was moving into that house was a boneheaded move on my part. I told her she shouldn’t have any contact with him. I knew Sheila would just be furious.”

  “She is. For a while she thought you were Willow.”

  “Me?” Becca looked stunned. “We’re all friends. We have been since college. Except... Did Sheila say something to you about me and Brian?”

  “As a matter of fact, she did.”

  “I knew it. She’s jealous. It was years ago, for God’s sake.”

  “So tell me about it.”

  “We had a fling. I didn’t know Sheila then. I’d met Brian through Lance. Brian and Sheila had a disagreement at the end of our junior year. She wanted to get married, he wanted to wait until they graduated. They broke up and she went home to Firebaugh. I was in summer school and so was Brian. Lance was off doing an internship. He and I weren’t dating exclusively anyway. Brian asked me out and one thing led to another. The fall semester started and Brian and Sheila got back together. End of story.”

  “Is it?”

  She glared at me. “As far as I’m concerned. But Sheila never forgot. Sometimes she gives me the evil eye. Thinks I’m out to steal her man. Well, I’m not. I’m fine with the one I’ve got.” She stood up, poised for flight. “I have to go home.”

  “Not until you tell me where Willow lives.”

  “Occidental. She rents a cottage there, not far from the gallery. Although she was making plans to move to a bigger place, the last time I talked with her.”

  “When was that?

  “It’s been weeks.”

  “And you’re sure you don’t have a phone number for her?”

  Becca shook her head. “I don’t. It’s just a casual relationship. Honestly, I really do have to go now.”

  I let her escape down Petaluma Boulevard. I wasn’t sure I believed her when she said she didn’t know Willow’s phone number.

  I doubled back to Della Fattoria and looked at the cupcake offerings. I spotted one that looked particularly delectable and pointed. I ordered some coffee and sat down to eat my mid-afternoon treat. The cupcake was every bit as good as it looked.

  Then I walked down to Lance’s office on Second Street. I was in luck. He was in.

  “Any news on finding Brian?” Lance asked. “I keep hoping he’ll call.”

  “He hasn’t. I’m following some leads. I have more questions for you.”

  “Sure. How can I help?”

  “When I was here yesterday, I asked you and Becca whether you knew a woman who calls herself Willow. I’ve recently learned that her real name is Martha Newman.”

  “Walt Newman’s daughter? Really? I had no idea.” Lance gave me a lopsided smile. “I knew Martha in high school. Not well, but I knew who she was. It’s a big school, and she was a sophomore when I was a senior.”

  “And her brother, Rick?”

  Lance nodded. “Oh, sure. Rick was in the same class I was. We didn’t have a whole lot in common. He barely graduated and he didn’t go to college, although Martha did. She went to Sonoma State University, over in Rohnert Park.”

  “What can you tell me about Rick?”

  “He’s dead now. It happened just a few weeks ago. His motorcycle skidded off a cliff on the Coast Highway. That’s all I know about the accident, just what I read in the paper. Rick was something of a hell-raising biker dude, even back in high school. He had several run-ins with the law as a juvenile. Drugs and fighting, according to the grapevine.”

  “What about his record as an adult?”

  Lance thought for a moment. “I went off to college in Davis after we graduated from high school, but I heard things. Rick was growing marijuana and selling it. He got busted once when he was in his early twenties and spent some time in jail.”

  “Here in Sonoma County?”

  “Yes, I believe so. But it could have been Mendocino County. I heard he lived up there for a while. But according to the newspaper, he was living in San Rafael when he died.”

  “What did Rick look like?”

  Lance smiled. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen him.”

  “You haven’t seen him since you graduated from high school?”

  “Not that I recall.”

  “Give it a try. Hair color, eyes?”

  Lance frowned, as though he was trying to conjure up Rick Newman’s face. “Eyes, beats me. Hair...sandy, dirty blond, whatever you’d call that. Just an ordinary guy, nothing unusual.” His face brightened. “Say, I’ve got an idea. I have all my old high school yearbooks at home. We can go over there and have a look.”

  “Good idea. I left my car on the other side of Petaluma Boulevard.” I didn’t tell him it was parked just down the street from his house.

  “We’ll take mine,” he said. “I live a few blocks from here. I could walk to work, but being in the real estate business, I use my car all day.”

  Lance and I left the building. A few minutes later, Lance parked his Prius in his driveway. We went up the steps to the fr
ont door and he unlocked it.

  The Coverdells’ daughter, Lucy, was home from her earlier outing. Now she was in the living room, draped over an armchair reading a book. “Hi, Dad,” she said, giving me a curious glance.

  Becca appeared in the doorway leading to the kitchen. “You’re home early. Want a glass of wine?” Then she stopped and glared at me, still smarting from our recent interview. “What is she doing here?”

  Lance looked taken aback at her rudeness. “What’s the matter?” She didn’t answer. He shrugged. “I’m going to show Jeri some yearbooks from high school. I will take that glass of wine. Jeri, how about you?”

  “No, thanks, just the yearbooks.”

  Lance took me down the hall to the bedroom he used as a home office. My own high school yearbooks were in a box at the top of a closet. Lance’s yearbooks were stored in a similar fashion, in a banker’s box at the back of a closet, barricaded by a plastic tub containing wrapping paper and ribbons. He pulled out a yearbook decorated with a big P on the front cover. “Here it is. This is the year I graduated. I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.”

  I flipped through the pages of the yearbook, finding the senior class photos. I looked for Lance’s photograph and found a younger version of the older man who’d gone to the kitchen to soothe his wife’s ruffled feathers. I turned pages again, looking for Rick Newman’s picture. When I found it, I studied his features. Something had been tugging at me since I found out about Rick. Now that I saw what he looked like in high school, that thought took on more importance.

  The high school photo of Rick Newman resembled my brother, Brian, as he had looked in high school. Age the man in the photograph, and he might look the way my brother looked now. He might also look like the man whose body had been found on the boat.

  But Rick was dead. His motorcycle went off the Coast Highway back in June. The bike had been found at the bottom of a cliff. But Rick’s body hadn’t. Everyone assumed the body had washed out to sea.