by Janet Dawson
So Rick Newman was dead.
Or was he?
Seventeen
What if? It was a line of questioning worth pursuing.
I leafed farther back through the photos, past the juniors, looking through the sophomore class until I found a picture of Martha Newman, aka Willow. She looked very young, not surprising since she would have been fifteen or sixteen years old when the photo was taken. She had a wistful, tentative smile on her round face. Her hair was dark, falling to her shoulders in unruly curls, and she hadn’t dressed up the day the class pictures were taken. I didn’t find any other photos of her in the yearbook, but I did find two more photos of Rick Newman, candid pictures instead of the senior class studio portrait.
I used my cell phone camera to take photos of the pictures I’d found of Rick and Martha Newman. Then I replaced the yearbook in the box, left the office, and walked up the hall to the living room. Lance was there with his daughter, talking with her about her day.
“Did you find what you needed?” He set down his wineglass and walked me to the front door.
“Yes, thanks.”
“Let me know if you hear anything from Brian.”
“I will.”
My car had been sitting in the afternoon sun for a couple of hours now, and it felt like an oven. I rolled down the windows and removed the top from the stainless steel bottle of water I kept in the front seat. The water was warm by now, but it was still wet. I took a couple of drinks and capped the bottle. Then I dug in my bag for the notebook where I’d written the phone number for Steven Kennett, Willow’s stepfather. This time I got Mr. Kennett himself. He agreed to talk with me later this afternoon and gave me directions to his home in Cotati.
I started the car and drove east, getting on the freeway headed north. When I reached Santa Rosa I took the Highway 12 exit west, then angled to the northwest on Occidental Road, which cut to the north of Sebastopol. This winding two-lane highway led through gentle, rolling terrain dotted with houses and farms, then into a landscape of tall coastal redwoods that covered the hills.
Occidental is a small town of about a thousand people. It dates back to the eighteen-seventies. At one time it was a stop on the North Pacific Coast railroad that went all the way to Sausalito, in Marin County. It was a timber town, with half a dozen sawmills. Nowadays Occidental is known for its restaurants, shops and art galleries, and its location on the scenic Bohemian Highway, which runs from Highway 12 north to the Russian River.
I turned left, off Occidental Road onto Bohemian Highway, and drove slowly through the middle of the town. I spotted Hestia Gallery in a stretch of shops near the Howard Station Café. I pulled into a parking spot.
Ceramic pots near the gallery’s front door held an assortment of petunias, pansies, marigolds, and zinnias. In the front window, I saw a sign explaining that Hestia was the Ancient Greek goddess of architecture and domesticity. Her symbol was the hearth and its fire, and I saw a drawing of both at the bottom of the sign.
I entered the gallery and walked through the front section. On the wall to the right, about twenty feet from the door, was an L-shaped glass-enclosed display case holding jewelry and other small items. At the corner of the L was a cash register and a holder with business cards. Several postcards decorated the counter, advertising art shows and fairs. I glanced through these and saw one advertising the upcoming Gravenstein Apple Fair in Sebastopol.
The hearth-and-fire logo was repeated on business cards, which showed the gallery’s address and phone number, and a name, Avie Northrup. I guessed this was the silver-haired woman who was behind the display case, talking with a customer who was looking at several pairs of earrings.
I circled the front section of the gallery, glancing at the wares made by local artists. In a basket near the door, I saw several packets of note cards with birds on the front, the same cards Becca had had in her bag the day before. One of these had the scene of the yellow-rumped warbler, the card Willow sent to my brother. I picked up a packet and looked at the back, checking the name of the artist. Then my eye was drawn upward, to a small watercolor done by the same artist. It showed a male Anna’s hummingbird, and the artist had caught the iridescence of the bird’s red-pink head and neck, a contrast with its gray-green body.
Dad would like that, I thought. And he had a birthday coming up.
I turned to examine the wall opposite the counter. Here were shelves displaying an assortment of pottery. Many of the pieces were functional items, cups, dishes, vases, bowls, and small pots.
I spotted a large green mug, similar to the one my brother had purchased from Willow. I picked it up and turned it over, seeing the distinctive willow-leaf mark with the “W” inside. Next to this was a vase in the same purplish red shade as Brian’s mug, then a set of three blue bowls, each a bit larger than the other. The piece I really liked was an asymmetrical platter in shades of green. I turned it over and looked at the price tag. It was steep, but not unusual for the quality of the work. I set the platter back on the shelf.
At the end of the long shelf I saw a three-ring binder with a cover that read POTTERY BY WILLOW. I picked it up and opened it. The binder contained photographs of Willow’s larger and more artistic pieces. She made hand-thrown dishes in sets of six, and they sold for a price in the four figures. There were more platters like the one I’d been looking at. If a customer wanted a larger piece, Willow could be commissioned to make something to order, such as birdbaths and garden statuary.
The prices I saw listed in the binder were a revelation. I looked through the pictures of work Willow had already done and figured she must be making a living at it. At the back of the book was a sheet that indicated her work could be purchased here, at Hestia Gallery, or through her website. I took my notebook from my bag and jotted down the website URL, so I could look at it later.
The customer at the display case selected a pair of earrings. The silver-haired woman rang up the purchase. Then, as the customer departed the gallery, the woman approached me. She was short and sturdy, clad in a pair of blue slacks with a light blue shirt and comfortable low-heeled shoes.
“Good afternoon. May I help you?”
“What can you tell me about this potter, Willow?” I set the binder back on the shelf.
“Willow does beautiful work. She’s local, lives here in the Occidental area. We’re the only gallery that sells her pottery, although she sometimes goes to art fairs.”
Like the fair in Sonoma, where my brother bought the mug. I took a business card from my bag and handed it to her. “My name’s Jeri Howard.”
“Avie Northrup,” she said, examining the card. “I’m the owner. What’s this about?”
“I’m working on a missing persons case. I’d like to talk with Willow. I believe she may have some information that would help me find this person. I understand she lives here in Occidental. Could you put me in touch with her?”
Avie Northrup thought a moment before answering. “She did live in town until recently, but she’s moved. I have a phone number for her. But I can’t give it out, of course. You understand, she likes her privacy. I suppose the best way to get in touch with her is to send her an email message through her website.”
“I plan to do that. It would be helpful if you’d call her and ask her to get in touch with me. The matter is urgent.”
“I will. Though sometimes she’s not good about returning calls.” The gallery owner turned slightly, then stopped. “I just thought of something. The gallery will be having a booth at the apple fair in Sebastopol this coming weekend. Willow promised to bring in some small items for the fair. She said she might drop by the gallery, either tomorrow or Friday. If she doesn’t call you back, maybe you can catch her here.”
“Thanks. I appreciate your help.”
I turned and walked toward the front door, past a middle-aged couple who had just entered. Outside the gallery, I stopped and glanced back through the front window. Avie Northrup greeted the couple. Then she stepped b
ack behind the counter and picked up the telephone.
Eighteen
I left Occidental by another route, heading east on Graton Road. The little town of Graton was known for apples, with orchards and processing plants. It was more than a hundred years old, situated in a lovely valley, its hills and meadows a mixture of oaks and grasslands. Before I reached the town, I turned into the gravel driveway that led to a two-story Victorian farmhouse surrounded by orchards full of apple trees. My cousin Pat lives here, with her husband, Bruce Foxworth, and her mother, Aunt Dulcie, the younger sister of my grandmother Jerusha, Dad’s mother.
Aunt Dulcie is now well into her nineties. Her husband, Fred, who died several years ago, had been a career Air Force officer. Pat and her siblings grew up on Air Force bases all over the United States and overseas. That’s where she met Bruce, a Graton native, who had also been an officer. When Bruce retired after thirty years in the service, he wanted to come back home and grow apples. So here they were, surrounded by apple trees, many of them loaded with fruit. The trees closest to the house were Gravensteins, an early August apple famed for its flavor. Many consider the Gravenstein the best pie apple. I certainly do, and I was hoping my cousin would give me some.
I parked next to a late-model Ford sedan I didn’t recognize, and got out of my car. Mabel, the Foxworths’ floppy-eared dog, greeted me, barking a couple of times. Then she gave my feet and legs an enthusiastic sniff. I knelt and scratched her behind the ears and she groaned with pleasure. I straightened and headed around the back of the house, where the patio looked out at the coastal hills to the west. I had a feeling I’d find Pat and Bruce here, enjoying a glass of wine in the late-afternoon sunshine.
I was right, they were here, seated around a glass-topped table, with a third person, an elderly woman with a head of tight gray curls. They each had glasses, and there was an open bottle of Pinot Noir on the table.
“I thought I heard someone drive up,” Pat said, rising from her chair to greet me with a hug. She was short and slim, with salt-and-pepper curls.
Bruce laughed. “Mabel was snoozing. Then she got up and went round to the front of the house. That’s a dead giveaway that someone drove up.” He got up and hugged me as well. He was tall and lean, looking sun-browned. He gestured toward the elderly woman. “Jeri, this is my Aunt Glad. Jeri is Pat’s cousin.”
“Jeri Howard,” I said, offering my hand.
“Gladys Tate,” the woman said, shaking hands. “Though Bruce always calls me Glad. Has ever since he was a little boy. Bruce’s dad was my brother. How are you related to Pat?”
“Pat and my father are cousins. Aunt Dulcie, Pat’s mom, and my grandmother Jerusha were sisters. How is Dulcie?” I asked Pat.
“She’s fine, having a nap right now.” Pat motioned to me. “Come into the kitchen while I get another glass.” Once we’d entered the big kitchen at the back of the house, Pat turned to me, a serious expression on her face. “I’m glad you stopped by. I was going to call you. I talked with your father earlier today. He told me Brian’s missing.”
I nodded. “Yes. Evidently he left home on Friday and was supposed to return on Sunday, but he didn’t.” I left out the part about the body on the boat.
“I told your dad, and now I’m telling you,” Pat said. “I’m sure I saw Brian’s old Jeep in Graton on Friday.”
“You did? When?”
“Late morning. I’d been to a meeting at the Community Hall downtown. I was just leaving, getting ready to cross Graton Road to where I’d parked my car. I saw a red Jeep heading west, driven by a man, though I didn’t get a good look at him. He was alone, and the Jeep had a dent on the passenger side door. The reason I noticed it is because Brian’s Jeep has a dent just like that.”
I pictured my brother’s Jeep Wrangler, its red paint faded and lots of miles on the odometer. “The Jeep didn’t have a dent the last time I saw it. Of course, that’s several months ago.”
“It was recent damage,” Pat said. “I saw the Jeep when we had that Fourth of July barbeque at Caro’s house. I asked Brian about it, and he said someone had backed into the door when he and Sheila were up in Yosemite in June. It was minor, he said, and he was going to hammer the dent out himself, but he just hadn’t gotten around to it.”
“It could have been any Jeep with a dent,” I said, thinking out loud, “but... thanks, Pat, I don’t have many leads to go on. You should call Detective Colman at the Petaluma Police Department. She’s handling the missing persons case. I’ve got her card in my purse.”
Pat took a wineglass from a cupboard and handed it to me. “Sure, I’ll call right away. Anything I can do to help. It’s just not like your brother to vanish like that.”
“No, it isn’t.” I thought about what Pat had said. The man in the Jeep Pat had seen was driving west on Graton Road, in the direction of Occidental. Which was where Willow lived, or had until recently.
We went back out to the patio and Bruce poured wine into my glass. I pulled out the card for Detective Colman and handed it to Pat. She went back into the house to make the call.
I took a seat next to Gladys Tate, who said, “As I was saying, I used to be able to pump good water from my well, but I can’t anymore. I am so annoyed I could just spit.”
“Is there something wrong with your well?” I asked, taking a sip of the Pinot.
“Yes,” she said tartly. “That blankety-blank winery that bought the parcel above my land. They sank a well that went deeper than mine. My well has gone dry. Instead of water, I’m getting dirt and clods. Now I’ve got to buy my water.”
“That’s terrible. Is it a big problem around here?”
Bruce nodded “Oh, yes. Water’s always an issue in California. Particularly in a dry year, like this one.”
Pat rejoined us, handing the card back to me, with a nod saying that she’d talked with Detective Colman about seeing Brian’s Jeep. I tucked the card into my bag.
“It’s the wineries,” Gladys said. “They’ve taken over. Soon there won’t be any apple orchards left. When I was growing up, this county was covered with apple orchards. All sorts of varieties, not those tasteless lumps you get in the grocery stores. Not that I buy apples in the store when I have an orchard full of trees right in back of my house.”
Bruce took a sip of his wine. “I’m like Aunt Glad, I can remember when there were acres of apples and several processing plants. Each year there’s more land taken out of production. And the only processing plant left is the one here in Graton. I read an article a couple of years ago that said Sonoma County is down from thirteen thousand acres of apple orchards to three thousand. I’ll bet the acreage has dropped since then. Now the biggest apple-growing area in California is down in the San Joaquin Valley.”
“China’s gotten into growing apples in a big way,” Pat added. “They don’t ship apples to the United States, but the Chinese do sell apple juice concentrate here, for a lot less money than ours. That’s why the apple processing business here has dried up and people are tearing out orchards.”
“I had no idea.” I looked out at the orchard. “I come up here every fall to get apples right out of your orchard.”
“And I’m planning to give you a bag before you leave,” Pat said. “We’re retired. We’re growing apples because we want to, not so we can make a living.” She waved a hand at the trees. “Take those Gravensteins out there. The best apple in the world, in my opinion. Sweet, tart, juicy. Best for pie and best for juice. But they ripen early, they don’t store well, and they don’t travel well. So what you get in the stores are those tasteless lumps, as Aunt Glad calls them. Usually Red Delicious, which is a misnomer if I ever heard one.”
“A Red Delicious is okay, right off the tree,” Bruce said. “But I’ll take a Gravenstein any day. Or a Rome Beauty or Pippin.”
“A Northern Spy,” Pat said.
“I’m partial to a Rhode Island Greening myself,” Gladys said. “There are so many varieties. Now, the Walkers down the road grow
twenty-seven varieties, some that most people have never heard of.”
“You can grow anything here in Graton,” Pat said.
Gladys nodded in agreement. “Apples, pears, and those folks over on Sullivan Road grow those Asian pears. Now, when I was a girl, we used to grow hops, too. I remember the hop-picking. We’ve got such nice weather, with good water.”
“Right here in Graton we have best aquifer in the county,” Bruce said. “A geologist friend of mine called it the Wilson Grove formation, sandstone. It’s a sandy loam. You can sink a well and it will produce. Farther west, toward Occidental, you get what they call metamorphic terrain, where you only get water out of fractures.”
“I don’t know what formation my place is on,” Gladys said. “All I know is, my well used to produce, and now it doesn’t. All because of that winery sucking up all the water.”
“So the wine grapes are where the money is,” I said.
“Right. You can get a couple of thousand dollars for a ton of grapes and less than two hundred for apples. So farmers are digging out the trees and putting in grapes.” Bruce gestured toward the bottle on the table. “Pinot Noir is what they grow here, mostly. Other varieties in other parts of the county.”
“Sad to see things change,” Gladys said. “But at my age I’ve seen a lot of changes.”
Yes, change was constant, I thought, sipping my Pinot Noir. The Miwok Indians had lived here, not that long ago, then the Spanish had moved in with their land grants, taking big tracts of land for ranches. In the late nineteenth century, it was immigrants from the East Coast and the Midwest who came to this area, putting in orchards and farms, people whose family, like Bruce and his aunt, had lived here for several generations.
I noticed something at the far edge of the patio, in the middle of a garden patch planted with flowers. I pointed at the small birdbath, in a familiar shade of reddish purple. “That’s new.”
“I got that a month or so ago,” Pat said, as a dark-eyed junco landed on the birdbath and began splashing in the water. “It was in a gallery in Occidental and it caught my eye.”