Cape Perdido

by Marcia Muller

  “Ready.” She got up, grabbed her jacket, and joined him at their rental car. A meeting of the Friends and any other interested parties had been called for ten, and for this, apparently, Fitch did not deem her peripheral.

  As she slid into the passenger’s seat, he said, “Service at that so-called restaurant is slow this morning. Made me late.”

  “Where’s the meeting being held?”

  “The Round Barn.”

  “What’s that?”

  He started the car and turned it toward the highway. “It belongs to one of the Friends, Lee Longways—you remember him from dinner the other night. He rents it out for dances and other community activities, donated it for this meeting.”

  “And it’s actually round?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Why, d’you think?”

  He frowned at her. “Because it is.”

  Wasn’t he curious about how someone came to build a barn that was round? Didn’t he ever wonder about things like that? Probably not.

  She settled in, tugging her seat belt tight as he turned south on the highway. The storm winds had blown the sky clear, and the sea’s brilliant blue reflected it. Waves broke against the huge offshore rocks, spewing foam high; on their crests, gulls did takeoffs and landings, drying their wings on the air currents. Jessie spotted a pair of fishing trawlers moving slowly south.

  She glanced at Fitch, who hunched over the wheel, gripping it hard with both hands. He oversteered on the first of the switchbacks, then braked sharply to correct. She refrained from distracting him from his driving until they’d descended to the flat stretch by the defunct mill, then asked, “Who’s picking up Eldon at the airport?”

  “I am.”

  “Mind if I ride along?”

  “No need for that. You’ll be more useful here. This meeting is a critical one in terms of assessing the feelings in the community and planning our strategy. I’ll brief Eldon on it and go over the legal issues on the drive back from the airport, and meantime you can talk with the people, try to find out things they’re not likely to voice in public.”

  “You mean, if they think there’s going to be any more violence. Or if they know who was behind yesterday’s shooting.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Does anyone know what the Aqueduct people are up to? Do they plan to continue pursuing the project, or what?”

  “Aside from talking with the sheriff’s department, they’ve been very quiet. Erickson and his assistant were in the restaurant this morning, reading the out-of-town papers and not saying much of anything, even to each other.”

  “Maybe I can find out.”

  “I don’t see how that’s possible.”

  “I have my ways.”

  “Don’t do anything foolish, Jess.”

  She controlled her immediate reaction—which was to snap at him—and after a moment said, “I wouldn’t be in this job if I were prone to doing foolish things.”

  Fitch didn’t reply. In a moment he veered across the center line and made a left turn onto a side road that climbed gradually into the hills.

  The ridge was rugged along there, the pines thicker than on the slopes above town, intermixed with rough-barked, silvery-leafed trees that exuded a mentholated smell. After a few minutes, the forest gave way to fenced pastureland strewn with outcroppings, where white-faced cattle grazed. Fitch slammed on the brakes as they came up behind an old white pickup truck whose tailpipe spewed a steady stream of exhaust.

  “Jesus!” he exclaimed, rolling up his window.

  The pickup turned right, through an open gate in the fencing. On a post was taped a crudely lettered sign with an arrow, that said “Friends.”

  “This is it,” Fitch said. “Asshole’s polluting the air at a meeting of environmentalists.”

  “It’s an old truck; maybe he can’t afford to have it fixed.”

  “Then he should walk.”

  “Just don’t start anything, okay?”

  “Am I the sort of person who starts things?”

  Jessie sighed. “Fitch, I barely know you. I don’t know what you’ll do in a given situation. But my job is to ease the way for you with the community. It strikes me that the best way to get along is to accept these people on their own terms.”

  He was silent for a moment, dropping back from the pickup as he carefully navigated the rutted track. “Okay,” he finally said, “I’ll try to cut them some slack. And I won’t start anything. All right?”

  “All right.”

  Ahead of them was a sea of vehicles, parked every which way on a dirt field that was muddy from last night’s rain. Beyond them stood the barn. It was painted a boxcar red with black trim; its sides curved, and its peaked roof was topped by a weather vane shaped like a horse. It reminded Jessie of a merry-go-round at the Jersey shore that she’d often ridden as a child. Several people stood outside, talking and smoking, and she could see more through the open doors. Fitch wedged their rental car between two SUVs, and as they crossed toward the barn, Jessie spotted Curtis Hope getting out of the old pickup.

  She nudged Fitch. “There’s your polluter.”

  He glanced at Hope and shrugged. “It’s a whole other world here.”

  Inside, the barn was cavernous and noisy, voices echoing off the high beamed ceiling. Around fifty metal folding chairs were set up in the middle of the plank floor, and most were occupied. A platform stood in front of them; from it Joseph and Bernina waved. Jessie and Fitch joined them.

  Bernina said, “Joseph’s going to call the meeting to order and make a few announcements. Then we want to introduce the two of you. And then, Fitch, could you talk for a while about water law?”

  He nodded, and as they sat, Joseph tapped on the microphone he held. The crowd gradually settled down.

  “This, folks,” Joseph said, “is a continuation of the forum we started at the pier yesterday. Hopefully, nobody’ll shoot anything today, because Lee Longways has been good enough to donate us the space, and if his barn or stock get ventilated, he’s going to be a mite annoyed.”

  Polite laughter, but with a nervous edge.

  “Speaking of shooting,” Joseph went on, “the incident yesterday was regrettable, and the Friends of the Perdido do not condone it in any way. Violence is never a good solution to any problem, and we ask that whoever shot that water bag take time to think about his actions and not repeat them. Enough said.

  “Now, today we’d hoped to have Gregory Erickson with us again to continue answering your questions, but he’s declined to do so, until the question of who destroyed his company’s property is cleared up. We are fortunate, however, to have some folks from Environmental Consultants Clearinghouse in New York City, who have agreed to join forces with us in our attempt to persuade the state water resources control board not to grant Aqueduct Systems’ application. Jessie Domingo, to my right, is what’s known as a community liaison specialist—meaning you can take your ideas or concerns or questions to her directly, and she’ll see they’re addressed. Feel free to approach her at any time after the formal part of this meeting is over. To my left is Fitch Collier, an attorney specializing in water rights. He’s going to explain the legal issues that have bearing on our situation here. Fitch?”

  Fitch stood and took the microphone. “Thank you, Joseph. First of all, I have to warn you that water lawyers are the most boring people in the legal community. We’re passionate about some of the most intricate and convoluted legislation ever enacted. But we’re also passionate about the world’s water supply being safeguarded and put to optimal use—and that’s what I have in common with all of you. . . .”

  Water law, Jessie knew, was boring, and despite his folksy opening, she suspected that Fitch wouldn’t hold the crowd’s interest for very long. She tuned him out and scanned the faces before her.

  Curtis Hope had remained near the barn door, where he leaned against an exposed beam, arms folded across his barrel chest. On Friday night, Hope had held back from the con
versation at the restaurant and, in spite of being a board member, had not attended the Friends’ meeting at Bernina’s. She had not seen him at the pier, either. And in the brief exchange she’d witnessed between him and Joseph, she’d caught an undertone of tension. What was the story on the two of them, anyway?

  She shifted her eyes to the right, saw the red-faced heckler, Ike Kudge, standing alone. Today he looked sober and was listening intently to Fitch. When Fitch said, “A complex issue deserves complex consideration, not mere rubber-stamping by a governmental agency,” Kudge nodded and muttered, “Right on.” Maybe there was more to the man than met the eye.

  In the second row of folding chairs, Jessie noticed Steph Pace, who evidently had taken off from her busy restaurant to attend the meeting. Pace was tall and slender, with a cascade of curly chestnut hair; her eyes were almond-shaped, slightly tilted above high cheekbones. A fashion model’s face, Jessie thought, except Pace, whom she’d seen wear nothing other than worn jeans and a faded woolen shirt, obviously didn’t care about style. She was leaning forward, hands clasped on her knees, but she didn’t appear to be watching Fitch. Jessie measured the angle of her gaze, realized that her eyes were fixed on Joseph.

  Another relationship she’d like to know more about.

  The crowd was growing restless. Fitch was delving into minutiae now—twists and turns of the law that only others of his ilk would find interesting. Jessie tried to signal to him to begin wrapping it up, but her attention was drawn to the door as a pair of sheriff’s deputies entered. They stood scanning the crowd, then approached Curtis Hope and spoke briefly with him. He shook his head, spread his hands palms up. One of the deputies spoke again, and Curtis shrugged and followed them outside.

  Jessie got to her feet, whispering, “Excuse me,” to Joseph, and hurried off the platform. When she came out of the barn, Curtis was standing with the deputies next to a sheriff’s department cruiser.

  She called, “Curtis, what’s happening?” and all three men turned. Curtis looked pale, and the corner of his mouth twitched before he answered.

  “I’m wanted at the substation in Calvert’s Landing,” he said. “A rifle that might’ve been used on that water bag has turned up. Apparently it’s mine.”

  JOSEPH OPENSHAW

  What the hell happened to you?” Joseph said. “I went down to the Landing to spring you from jail, and you were already gone.”

  “Go away, Joseph.” Curtis pushed his beer glass across the bar, signaling to Mark White, the Deluxe’s owner, for another round.

  “Not this time. Not till I get an explanation why the sheriff’s men pulled you out of the meeting.”

  “Wasn’t important. And I wasn’t in jail. Even if I had been, I wouldn’t’ve needed you. Jessie Domingo came riding to my rescue, told them they’d better charge me or let me go. For a white woman, she’s tough. Must be living in New York City that does it.”

  “Jessie brought you back from the Landing?”

  “Right. Guess that’s what being a community liaison officer is all about. She asked me a ton of questions on the way back.”

  “Oh? Like what?”

  “About me, you, Steph, Ike Kudge, other people around here.” Curtis picked up the fresh beer Mark pushed across the bar, and sipped, looking moody.

  “Personal questions, then.”

  “Yeah. I think she was trying to figure out who’s what to whom.”

  Joseph didn’t like that one bit. “You didn’t tell her—”

  “I didn’t tell her much of anything. Just enough to keep her happy and compensate her for getting me out of there. ’Course, there wasn’t really any question of them holding me; they just wanted to get the straight story on the rifle.”

  “What rifle?” Joseph tried to keep his annoyance with Curtis out of his voice. He’d been worried when he learned that his old friend had been taken away from the meeting by the deputies, and he didn’t appreciate his cavalier attitude.

  “My old thirty-aught-six. They turned it up inside the administration building at the mill. Figure it was used to shoot that water bag. But if they’d checked their own records, they would’ve saved themselves a lot of trouble. I reported it stolen from my truck almost a year ago. They never did find out who took it.”

  “Was anything else taken?”

  “Some tools. Damn good Porter and Cable drill and bits. Put a crimp in my contracting business till the insurance paid off.”

  Contracting business, Joseph thought, sure. Curt had been at the top of their high school class, was offered scholarships to three different universities, but instead he’d enlisted in the army. When he returned to Cape Perdido, the service and a broken marriage behind him, he worked construction with the highway department for a few years, then settled into doing repair work only when financial necessity dictated.

  Curtis added, “Now that I’ve answered your questions, will you go away and let me drink in peace?”

  Joseph ignored him, thinking how easy it would have been for a sniper to wait on top of the administration building with a gun and choose his opportunity to shoot. But to hide the weapon inside the building and escape without being seen by the deputies who had quickly converged on the scene? Not so easy, unless you knew a quick way to exit, or a secure place within.

  “They say where in the building they found the rifle?” he asked Curtis.

  “No.”

  “Or when?”

  “I gather they’ve had it since yesterday but weren’t able to trace it to me till this morning. You leaving now?”

  “Yeah, I’m leaving.” Why waste time in verbal sparring with Curt? Besides, Joseph was due to meet with Bernina, Fitch Collier, Jessie Domingo, and Eldon Whitesides in fifteen minutes.

  When he stepped outside, he found the wind had risen, was gusting up the side street from the sea. He faced into it, toward the highway. The sky was still clear, but whitecaps dotted the water; a flock of pelicans skimmed low, looking for their next meal. Joseph glanced at his watch, decided he had time to go home for a heavier jacket. He turned and walked uphill, the wind at his back.

  Home was a converted animal shed in Bernina’s backyard. At some point, a previous owner had made a square addition to the slope-roofed structure, installed a bathroom and a tiny kitchen; although small and poorly insulated—and on warm days smelling faintly of goat—it perfectly suited Joseph’s purposes. He had brought only a few possessions from Sacramento, and those fitted nicely; the rest of his belongings remained in his rental house in Davis, south of the capital, and he suspected that when the lease ran out, he would return to pack them up for storage in Bernina’s attic. And then what? He hadn’t a clue; he only knew that Sacramento was over for him.

  The flashing light on the answering machine indicated he’d had one call. He pressed the play button while reaching for his jacket, heard the voice of Don Huntley, a friend at an environmental organization for which he used to work.

  “Joseph, I think you should know that we’ve had an inquiry about that business last spring. Some guy pretending to be a reporter for the Bee. Diane took the call, refused to comment, and it’s a good thing, because I checked and nobody at the paper ever heard of him. Sounds like somebody’s trying to discredit you, so watch your back.”

  Joseph replayed the message, listening carefully, then tried to reach Don at home, but got only his machine. In a way, the news didn’t surprise him; he’d expected the story would get out one day, had hoped that wouldn’t happen until after the situation here was resolved. Maybe on some level he’d hoped it wouldn’t surface at all, and that he’d one day be able to return to his life as he’d known it. Well, that was not going to happen, either.

  Few people were on the streets as he walked back through town, and there was little traffic on Highway 1. Joseph started across, stopped on the yellow center line, turning first north and then south, contemplating his future here. At times like this, Cape Perdido reminded him of an abandoned movie set. False-fronted buildings, r
usted beer signs, dilapidated trucks, sagging power lines—all waiting for the cast and crew to return. But the company had moved on to other, perhaps more exotic locations, leaving this wide spot on the road to be passed by and forgotten.

  Joseph shook off the notion and angled across toward the Blue Moon.

  Although it was only three-thirty, Steph had agreed to open her restaurant to them as a meeting place. When Joseph stepped inside, he found the bar and adjoining dining room deserted, but from the back came voices. He crossed to the swinging door and pushed through into the kitchen. Steph stood at the chopping-block island, wielding a chef’s knife on assorted vegetables, while Arletta O’Neal, her cook, stirred a cast-iron pot on the stove. A television set on top of the doubled-doored stainless steel refrigerator was tuned to a black-and-white movie, but neither woman was watching it.

  “. . . and if I see one more pale hothouse tomato—” Steph was saying. She broke off, noticing Joseph, and looked at her watch. “That time already?”

  He nodded.

  “Take over, please,” she said to Arletta, pulling her apron off and hanging it on a hook. She led Joseph to the bar area and asked, “Coffee?”

  “Please.”

  Steph poured two cups, and they went to sit at a big round table. “So,” she said, “you talk to Curt?”

  “Yeah. I finally found him at The Deluxe.” He filled her in on what the sheriff’s deputies had been after. “You know that detective, Rhoda Swift, don’t you?”

  “Not well.”

  “But well enough to call her, ask a few questions?”

  “Such as?”

  “Where in the administration building they found the rifle. And what they think of Curt’s story. If they believe him.”

  “Why wouldn’t they? You said he filed a report of the theft.”

  “He said.”

  “Why would he lie?”

  Joseph shrugged. “I have the feeling Curt’s been lying about a number of things lately—or at least telling half-truths.”

  “Look, we talked about this last night—”

  The door opened, and Jessie Domingo and Bernina came in.