by Janet Dawson
Robbie walked over to Scott. “Hey, man, you get that part?”
Scott had been watching me, his expression wary as he took another drink of Pepsi. Now he stood and spoke to Robbie. His voice seemed friendly, but his face didn’t reveal much. “Yeah, I just picked it up. Everything’s cool. Give me till the end of the day and I’ll have this baby up and running.”
“No problem,” Robbie said.
Carla bantered with Duke, then her cell phone rang. She pulled it from her pocket. “Hey, maybe it’s Harry—finally.” Then she looked at the display. “Nope, it’s Mom. Oh, hell, what time is it? I’m supposed to pick her up at the dentist.” She pushed a button on the phone and said, “Hi, Mom. I’m sorry, I know I’m late. I got caught up in something here at the shop. Be there in ten minutes.”
She ended the call. “Scott, I have to get Mom. I’ll be back as soon as I take her home.”
“I’ll be here.” Scott turned his attention back to the bike he was working on. Duke and Robbie said good-bye to Carla and got back on their motorcycles, heading out of the parking lot toward Santa Rosa.
Carla looked at me as though she was surprised I was still there. “Sorry, gotta go. Mom doesn’t drive, her eyes are real bad. So I have to chauffeur her around.”
“I understand.” I’ll come back later, I thought. I wanted to show Carla the picture of the man who died on the boat. And I wanted to find out more about Scott Cruz.
Carla retrieved her handbag from a desk drawer, left the office, and got into her Hyundai hatchback. I walked toward my Toyota, glancing at the house where Scott lived. It was small, a cottage really, some twenty yards to the east of the shop. Painted a pale shade of green, it looked as though it needed some upkeep.
I got into my car and unscrewed the top of my water bottle. As I tipped it back to take a drink, I saw something on the right, in my peripheral vision. Scott had entered the office from the service bay. He reached for something on the desk. The phone? No, it was the business card I’d given Carla, propped up against the ashtray. He examined it, then tucked it into his back pocket.
Scott certainly seemed interested in my conversation with Carla—and my card. Why?
Twenty-Six
I took another drink of water and put the cap on the bottle. Then I started my car and headed out of the parking lot. I waited for several cars to pass before turning west onto Guerneville Road. I used my headset and called Rita Lydecker.
“Hi, Rita. I’m calling to ask for another favor. See what you can find out about a guy named Scott Cruz. He’s in his mid-twenties, looks like a real bad boy. He works as a mechanic at Vann’s Motorcycle Shop in Santa Rosa. I’d be interested to know what else he’s been up to in this lifetime.”
“Sure thing,” Rita said. “I’ll email you when I get some results. In the meantime, I got the boat history report on the Esmeralda. I’ll email that to you, too, but as long as I’m on the phone, I’ll give you the short version. Lowell Rhine’s not the owner.”
“I’m not surprised to hear that.” I slowed as I approached an intersection, where a pickup truck made a running stop and then pulled out in front of me. “Rhine must be stashing the boats for someone else.”
“That’s my guess,” Rita said. “Here’s the scoop. The owner of the Esmeralda—and the other two boats—is a man named Enrique Lopez. He’s a U.S. citizen, lives in Santa Cruz. Last year, the Coast Guard seized the Esmeralda down by Moss Landing. The boat was full of bales of marijuana. Lopez was transporting pot from Mexico to the States.”
“Why the hell do we need to import pot from Mexico?” I asked. “We’ve got plenty of marijuana growing right here in Northern California. From what I hear, the locals are building greenhouses and running generators for indoor grows. I see garden shops up here with signs advertising ‘indoor gardening supplies.’ Believe me, it ain’t tomatoes they’re growing.”
“Supply and demand,” Rita said. “It’s big business. Used to be, the pot growers in Northern California were small-timers, mom-and-pop operations planting fifty to a hundred plants. Now those people are being pushed out by the big commercial growers. Where there’s money, there’s competition, so now the Mexican cartels want a piece of the action. They’re loading bales of pot onto boats and running them up the California coast. Sooner or later the state is just going to have to legalize the stuff so we can regulate it.”
“I’m sure that will happen eventually.” The pickup truck in front of me stopped suddenly and I hit my brakes. Then the truck turned left onto a gravel road. I eased my foot off the brake and onto the accelerator. “So if the Esmeralda was seized by the Coast Guard, how did it wind up at Newman’s Marina in Lakeville, with Rhine listed as the owner?”
“Lopez is Rhine’s client,” Rita said. “Rhine got the boat back from the Coast Guard, due to some changes in the forfeiture laws. And he got Lopez a light sentence, some jail time and probation. My guess is, Rhine stashed all three of the boats in Lakeville because it’s out of the way. Once Lopez is off probation, he can get his boats back and resume his smuggling activities.”
“Except one of his boats is a burned-out wreck, with a body aboard, that’s getting all sorts of attention from the Sonoma County detectives.”
“And a couple of private eyes.” Rita chuckled. “That’s you and me, girlfriend.”
“Thanks for all your help,” I said. “I’ll look forward to seeing that report, and hearing whatever you can dig up on Scott Cruz.”
I ended the call and continued driving west on Guerneville Road. By now it was past noon and my stomach was growling. It had been a while since that pastry I’d eaten in Sonoma.
I called Dan’s cell phone. “Got time for a quick lunch?” I asked.
“Yes. Where are you?”
“Just left Santa Rosa, heading for Occidental. How about you?”
“I’m in Sebastopol,” Dan said. “I just finished hiking the trails at Ragle Ranch Park and now I’m heading for Graton, to check out the West County Regional Trail.”
“Graton’s perfect. There’s a place downtown that’s good, called the Underwood Bistro. I’ll meet you there, probably in twenty minutes.”
“Great. I’ll get a table.”
Guerneville Road intersected with Highway 116 above Graton. I turned south, then headed west on Graton Road. The Underwood Bar and Bistro was in a one-story wooden building, the exterior walls painted a dark red. The restaurant was kitty-corner from the Community Hall that Cousin Pat had been leaving last Friday morning, when she saw Brian’s Jeep—or one that looked a lot like it. I parked and walked across the street. Inside the restaurant had polished wood floors and dark wainscoting, with red plush upholstery on some of the seats. A long wooden bar ran down one side of the front section.
Dan had secured a table for two, near the bar. He stood up, looking good in khakis and a green shirt. He put his arms around me. I felt his lips brush my hair.
“How are you?” he asked.
“I’m tired. I didn’t sleep very well last night.” I rested my head on his shoulder for a moment. Then we separated and he pulled out the chair for me.
“I’m glad you could meet me. I’ve been wanting to see you.”
I smiled. “You saw me Tuesday night.”
He took my hand. “That was two days ago.”
The server stopped by our table, asking if we’d like anything to drink. Dan ordered a beer. No alcohol for me, though. I stuck with iced tea. I examined the menu, debating between a sandwich and a salad. When the server came back with our beverages, I ordered a Cobb salad. Dan, who’d been hiking all morning, opted for a burger.
“Have to keep my strength up,” he said with a smile. “Although the hike I took this morning at Ragle Ranch was an easy one. They’re getting ready for the apple festival.”
“Yes, I know. That’s Saturday and Sunday.”
“This afternoon I’m going to hike the West County Trail. I can pick it up on Occidental Road and hike to Forestville. It’s about
four miles round-trip, on the old rail line that connected Petaluma and Santa Rosa with Sebastopol and Forestville. There’s a Rails-to-Trails system that’s going to be about thirteen miles long when it’s completed.”
“I’m glad they’ve repurposed the old rail right-of-way,” I said. “Where are you going tomorrow?”
Dan looked up as the server delivered our food. He doctored his burger with mustard and catsup. “Guerneville, I think. Armstrong Redwoods and Austin Creek are contiguous, and there are lots of trails to explore.”
“I know. There was a brochure on Brian’s desk. That’s one of the places he was researching, for day trips or camping, I suppose.” I forked up a mouthful of salad.
“There’s a campground at Austin Creek, called Bullfrog Pond.” Dan picked up his burger. “But at this time of year, and close to a weekend, all the campsites get booked up. Maybe he decided to do day trips, and something happened.”
“I can’t shake the feeling that there’s more to it than that. An accident while hiking doesn’t explain why Brian’s bracelet turned up with the dead man on the burned boat.” I paused. “I got a call from the Petaluma detective, Colman, this morning. They found Brian’s Jeep on the grounds of an old quarry up by Forestville.”
“There are several quarries up there, just west of town.”
“No prints, except Brian’s. Whoever left the Jeep there had wiped it. Of course, Colman is still convinced that Brian took off, staged his own disappearance. But Dan, I’m sure someone’s taken him. Why, I don’t know, but finding the Jeep that way just underscores it. I’ve got to find him.”
“You will,” Dan said. “I’m sure of it.”
We talked a while longer about my efforts to find my brother, then I changed the subject. “How’s Bodega Bay?”
“My friends’ house is really nice. It has a view of Bodega Harbor. They’re going to be gone about three weeks. Once you find your brother and all this is settled,” he added, “I hope you’ll come over and spend a few days with me.”
I nodded, my fork paused over my salad. “Sounds great. I’d like that.”
Twenty-Seven
Dan and I shared a chocolate torte for dessert. We paid the lunch check and went outside, where he kissed me good-bye. Then we separated, heading for our respective cars.
I took Graton Road west, driving out of the little town into the countryside beyond. Just as I passed the turnoff leading to Cousin Pat’s house, my cell phone rang. When I answered it, I heard Joe Kelso’s voice.
“I’ve been looking into that accident back in June,” he said, after we’d exchanged greetings. “The one involving Rick Newman. I got the file from a friend of mine in county law enforcement. There’s nothing to suggest that it was anything but an accident. But I can see why you’re suspicious.”
“How so?” I crossed the bridge over Purrington Creek and headed into a curve.
“Hard to put my finger on it,” Joe said. “But my gut tells me something’s off. Why did this guy’s motorcycle go off the road? It was a sunny day in June.”
“Yes, that’s the way it hit me. So I’m left with the theory that maybe, just maybe, Rick Newman isn’t dead, but he wants people to think he is. And if that’s the case, why?”
“Don’t know,” Joe said. “I took a look at this guy’s record. Drug offenses, the most recent one possession for sale. Some breaking-and-entering, a couple of fights, the occasional drunk-and-disorderly. He did jail time for several of those. But his record is small-time stuff, nothing big or flashy. Maybe he got himself involved in something that got out of hand and he decided to disappear. I’ll keep looking.”
“Thanks, Joe.”
I ended the call, then slowed my Toyota as the car in front of me signaled and then made a left turn into a driveway. The road leading to the Hargis ranch was coming up in another mile or so. As I approached that intersection, I saw a blue sedan stopped there, waiting to make a turn onto Graton Road. I passed the car. The blinker was on, signaling a right turn, and the driver was a woman. She had dark hair tied back with a scarf. After I passed, the blue car turned, heading the same direction I was.
I kept the car in sight in my rearview mirror. At the first opportunity, I pulled off the road in front of several mailboxes. The driver didn’t look at me as the blue car passed, but I looked at her closely. I was pretty sure the driver was Willow, and I guessed she was going to the gallery in Occidental.
I pulled back onto the road, following her. When we reached Occidental, she turned left on Main Street, driving slowly through the town’s small commercial district. She parked in front of Hestia Gallery. I pulled into a space nearby and got out of my Toyota.
The woman got out of her car. She was dressed for the hot weather in her Teva sandals and khaki shorts. She wore a gauzy flowered cotton shirt in purple and blue, the colors matching the scarf she’d used to tie back her hair. Her handbag was made of purple quilted cotton, the strap slung across her shoulder. She walked around to the back of the blue car, a fairly new Honda Accord hybrid. She opened the trunk and took out a large carton, carrying it toward the front door of the gallery. I was there to hold open the door.
“Thanks,” she said in a pleasant, low voice.
I followed her inside and hung around the shelves near the display of Willow’s pottery. I noticed that the green platter I liked so much was still there. She set the carton on the floor near the counter. There were several customers inside the gallery, and Avie Northrup was ringing up a sale.
When she had finished with the customer, the gallery owner turned to the woman. “Hi, Willow, good to see you. It’s a gorgeous day.”
“Hi, Avie. Yes, it’s beautiful. Hot, though.” Willow pointed to the box at her feet. “I brought you some things to take to the apple fair this weekend. Small pieces—mugs, vases, bowls, plates, the usual. Where do you want it?”
“Great. Thanks for bringing it in. I’m sure we’ll sell lots of art at the booth. Put the box in the storeroom.” The gallery owner waved toward the back of the shop. “We’re taking everything over to Ragle Ranch Park early Saturday morning. Are you planning to stop by the fair?”
“I might,” Willow said. “I’m not sure what I’ll be doing on Saturday.”
She picked up the carton again and walked toward the rear of the gallery. Another customer stepped up to the counter and asked to see a piece of jewelry in one of the cases. As Avie leaned down to open the case, I followed Willow back to the storeroom. She set the carton on a bench, opened the flaps at the top and took out a newspaper-wrapped bundle. She removed the newspaper, revealing a large coffee mug, similar to the one she’d sold Brian. This one was cobalt blue, chased here and there with an iridescent rust.
“Nice piece,” I said. “I like the color.”
Willow smiled at me, a friendly expression on her face. “It’s for the Gravenstein Apple Fair on Saturday. The gallery’s going to have a booth. Interested in buying it? I’m sure Avie will sell it to you now, rather than wait for the fair.”
“Right now I’m more interested in conversation. I’m Jeri Howard, Brian’s sister.”
Willow’s hazel eyes widened and took on a deer-in-the-headlights expression. She opened her mouth and then closed it again. She rewrapped the mug and put it inside the carton. “I don’t know where Brian is.”
“But you do know something. How did you know he was missing?”
“Becca told me. She called me, well, called my cell phone and left a message.”
So Becca had been lying—once again—when she told me she didn’t have a phone number for Willow.
“We need to talk,” I said.
Willow nodded. “I know. Let’s get something to drink.”
We left the gallery and walked a few doors down the street to the Howard Station Café. As hot as it was, coffee didn’t sound good. Willow ordered iced tea, and I opted for lemonade. When I took a sip, it was good, a nice balance between tart and sweet. We took our drinks out to the café’s front p
orch. Willow sipped her tea in silence. I waited for her to say something.
Finally she spoke. “There isn’t anything going on between me and Brian. Even though Becca thinks there is. Brian and I are just friends, that’s all.”
So you say, I thought, examining her face. There might not be anything going on between her and my brother, but I had a feeling Willow wished there was.
“I am less concerned about your relationship with my brother than I am with what you know that will help me find him.”
“I told Brian he could use the cabin,” Willow said.
I straightened and leaned toward her. “What cabin? Where?”
“On the ranch. My grandfather died earlier this year and left the land to me and my brother, Rick. They used the cabin when they went hunting, Rick, Dad and Grandpa. There are wild pigs up there in the hills, and deer and wild turkeys, too.”
“Why did you offer Brian the cabin?”
“He wanted to get away for a few days,” she said. “I ran into him a week ago, at Andy’s Market north of Sebastopol. He’d been on a day hike up here. He said he wanted to get away, but he hadn’t been able to find a campsite at short notice, because they were booked. He said he was planning to stay home in Petaluma and do day hikes at places here in the area. I said he could use the cabin. It would be okay because I was going away. I left Friday morning and went up to Mendocino. I got back yesterday afternoon.”
“When did Brian go up to the cabin?” I asked.
“Friday, I guess. I saw him at the market on Thursday afternoon. We talked about it and he said that sounded like a great idea. I was planning to leave on my trip early Friday, so I gave him my extra key to the gate. He said he’d pack up his gear and go up to the cabin sometime Friday morning. That’s the last time I saw him or talked with him.”
I nodded. What Willow was telling me fit with the information I’d gotten from my cousin Pat. She was right, she had seen Brian’s Jeep in Graton last Friday.