Cape Perdido

by Marcia Muller

  After a protracted effort that produced only splinters, she gave up and lay back on the floor. When would the day’s heat wane? She had lost all sense of time, and the shaft of light had disappeared from under the door, but the heat continued unabated. Whatever this building was, it must be shaded on the east side, exposed on the west.

  Already today she’d missed two meal services at the restaurant. She lived her life on a strict schedule; her employees must be frantic. Had they gone to her house? Searched elsewhere for her? Called her friends and her mother? If so, had they then contacted the sheriff’s department? Would the department put deputies on the lookout for her, notify the highway patrol? They did that in cases of people who were driving the remote county roads and didn’t arrive at their destinations within a reasonable time, but Steph’s car was parked in her own driveway. She hadn’t wanted it to attract attention at Cauldron Creek last night, so she’d walked. The authorities might argue that her absence appeared to be voluntary.

  But Joseph would realize she hadn’t gone off of her own free will. He knew her, perhaps better than she knew herself. Joseph would have stopped by the restaurant for his afternoon coffee by now; he would be looking for her, even if the sheriff’s deputies weren’t.

  Joseph.

  He’d find her.

  He would.

  TIMOTHY MCNEAR

  When he’d driven by on his way to Miss Stephanie’s house, Timothy had seen Curtis Hope replacing shingles on the roof of the general store. Now he drove back down there, but Hope was gone. He parked and went inside, asked the clerk behind the counter if Hope would return. No, she told him, the repairs were done and he’d left for another job. Where? Timothy asked. The clerk popped her chewing gum and eyed him suspiciously, then said it was one of the houses off Lone Pine Trail, the old Adams place.

  Timothy knew the house; it had been abandoned for years since the deaths of the couple who owned it, and he was surprised someone had hired Hope to fix it up. The son, returned from the Los Angeles area, or perhaps a new owner? He went back to his car and drove south.

  Hope, he thought. Hope must be behind Stephanie’s absence. Whatever he’d done to her, he certainly was acting cool, going about his business where everyone could see him. Unusual behavior for a man with something to hide, but hadn’t he himself done the same after he’d moved Mack Kudge’s body those many years ago?

  The morning after that far-off night, he’d arrived at the mill offices at his accustomed hour of eight. Greeted his secretary, read the San Francisco, Sacramento, and Santa Carla papers at his desk, sipping the coffee she brought him. As he signed a stack of letters he’d dictated the previous afternoon, his hand did not waver. Outwardly calm, even relaxed, but his thoughts were in a turmoil.

  How soon before someone discovered Kudge’s body? The workers often took smoke or lunch breaks on the long-unused pier. Perhaps it would have been wiser to dump the body into the sea, let it wash up somewhere south of here. But he’d thought it a clever move to leave it at the mill; no one would be stupid enough to dump a dead body on his own property.

  Ten o’clock, and still no alarm had been sounded. He indulged in a fantasy that the events of the previous night had been nothing more than a bad dream. Then the present became part of the nightmare: What if someone had seen him move the body? Notified the sheriff’s department? Perhaps they were playing a game with him, waiting for him to go to the pier to see if the body was still there.

  Were the sheriff’s deputies really that cunning? he wondered. No, not the clownish bunch at the coastal substation. Underqualified, inept, shunted off into this backwater because serious crime didn’t happen much here and the department needed its better people in the cities along the inland corridor.

  Still, he had refused to give in to the urge to go to the pier, have a look.

  It was after eleven when his secretary burst through the door with the news. Timothy rushed to the pier, viewed the body in the presence of his head of security and the workers who had found it. He didn’t have to feign shock and queasiness; even though Kudge’s remains had been sheltered from the sun by a stack of old packing crates, the morning heat had done them no good, and daylight revealed details that darkness had softened. Blood had flowed from Kudge’s mouth and nostrils, drying brown on his face. Flies hovered around the body, and already the smell of putrefaction was on the air. He turned away.

  So much destruction in so little time. A brief hesitation, a squeeze of the trigger, and . . . this.

  Or had there been a hesitation? Was the fatal shot more calculated than he’d imagined? And if so, how was he to live with that knowledge? He’d pushed the unwelcome thought away and gone to speak with his security man.

  Now, as he drove south in search of Curtis Hope, the same thought returned, and he had to push it away even more firmly. Entertaining it, even for a minute, would force him to examine the validity of his actions of twenty years ago, and he doubted he could go on if he concluded that what he’d considered a great and noble sacrifice had been based on a dangerously false premise. Dangerous because of what further acts of violence that sacrifice might have spawned.

  Lone Pine Trail wound eastward into the hills above the wide spot in the highway called Deer Harbor. Timothy followed it for half a mile or so to a gravel driveway where a rusted mailbox leaned on its post, the door gaping open. The rambling white clapboard house was on a rise, a meadow that was green from recent rains, sloping down to the roadside. When he turned in, he saw an old white pickup under an acacia tree. He parked beside it and walked toward the house.

  Curtis Hope sat in an old swing on the wide wraparound porch, smoking a cigarette. He stood when he saw Timothy, crushed the butt out under his toe, and folded his arms across his barrel chest. Timothy went to the foot of the steps and stopped.

  “Mr. Hope.” He nodded. “The clerk at the general store told me I might find you here.”

  “Yeah? So what can I do for you?”

  “I’m looking for a mutual friend, Stephanie Pace.”

  Something changed in Hope’s face, a tightening of its already taut lines. “Stephanie isn’t really a friend of mine. Surprises me that you count her as one of yours.”

  “As I recall, you used to be close to her.”

  “That was years ago. Things change. People change.”

  Timothy hesitated. He hadn’t thought through his approach to Hope, and now he didn’t know the best way to counter this resistance.

  Hope saved him the effort. “Look, man,” he said, “I don’t know why everybody thinks I know where Steph is. I haven’t seen her in days.”

  “What do you mean, everybody?”

  “Well, Joseph Openshaw. He was asking about her earlier. I told him the same thing: I haven’t seen her since the Friends of the Perdido dinner on Friday night.”

  Hope took out another cigarette and got it lit, but his hand shook. Timothy studied him, taking his time the way he used to during labor negotiations at the mill. Hope had been an outstanding student, reputedly destined for far better things than Soledad County could offer, but now he was simply another underemployed victim of the poor economy and his own laziness.

  A victim of his guilt, too. The man was gradually being eaten up by it. Guilt that could be traced directly back to that night in June 1984. A man with a core of guilt could easily be broken. Timothy knew that better than anyone.

  He said, “I know Stephanie wanted to talk with you last night. Did she tell you why?”

  Hope’s mouth tightened; then he dragged on the cigarette. “I told you, I haven’t seen her since Friday night.”

  “But you heard from her.”

  “. . . What if I did? It’s none of your business.”

  “But it is. You see, I asked her to talk with you. About Mack Kudge.”

  Hope flinched at the name. “Kudge? That was decades ago.”

  “And decades are a long time to keep a secret. I know; I have a few of my own.”

  “Man
, you’re crazy!”

  “Secrets like ours can make you crazy. Don’t you agree?”

  Hope was silent, his lips compressed, his eyes moving jerkily from side to side, as if he were looking for a way out of a trap. “I’m not gonna talk about Kudge. Not to you, not to anybody.”

  “But you did agree to talk with Stephanie.”

  “I didn’t know what she wanted. If I’d’ve known, I never would’ve—”

  “Yes?”

  “Look, all she said was that she wanted to talk. Named a time and place.”

  “When and where?”

  Hope looked away.

  “When and where?”

  “Eight o’clock. The beach at Cauldron Creek.”

  “Did you meet her?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “She didn’t show.”

  “Are you sure of that?”

  “Well, no, I’m not sure. I mean, I was late, my truck wouldn’t start, and . . .”

  “And what?”

  Hope ran his tongue over his lips, then nodded as if making a decision. “Okay, when I got there, it looked like somebody’d gotten to her first. The sand was all scuffed up like there’d been some kind of fight, and on the rocks, well, there was a smear of blood.”

  Timothy felt anger constrict his throat. It was a moment before he could speak, and when he did, his voice was low and dangerous—the tone that had often made the union leaders back off during negotiations. “You saw signs of a struggle, you saw blood, and yet you did nothing?”

  Hope glared at him. “Yeah, I did nothing. I’ve been doing nothing my whole life. Nothing, ever since that night somebody shot Mack Kudge dead in your goddamn garden.”

  JESSIE DOMINGO

  Jessie waved at Fitch as the small plane sped down the runway of the airport near Oilville. It rose into the air, cleared the trees at the far end, and soon was gone, turning southeast toward Sacramento. They’d both agreed he could do more there, monitoring developments with the water resources control board, than in Cape Perdido.

  She got back into the battered rental car, drove along the access road to the highway, and turned south, feeling aimless and adrift. Before she and Fitch had left the motel, he’d called Tom Little, the private investigator in San Francisco; again Little wasn’t available, but his secretary promised to ask him to call back. Then Jessie called the sheriff’s department. Rhoda Swift wasn’t available, either, so she left a message. Now all she could do was go to her shabby motel room and wait to hear from one or the other.

  The room was much too quiet; even the rumble of the logging trucks on the highway was muted. For a while Jessie tried to read, but the novel she’d brought along—a multigenerational saga set in South Africa, the sort of thing she usually liked—seemed tedious and impenetrable. Finally she set it aside and lay flat on the bed, staring at the cracked ceiling.

  Inactivity had never suited her. At home her days were packed with work, visits to the health club, classes, lunch dates, dinner parties, clubbing, plays, movies, trips to the museums, weekend excursions out of town. Even her downtime couldn’t really be called that; there were always errands to run, friends to talk with, plans to be made. Sometimes she feared that she was leading an uncontemplative life, but mostly she was content. As her Puerto Rican grandmother had once told her, later there would be plenty of time to contemplate, but not so much to live fully.

  What she was not content with right now was waiting for a call from Swift or Little that might not come. She sat up, reached for the phone directory, and found the number for the Tides Inn. Called and asked the man who answered if he’d been on the desk the night before. He had, he said, two in the afternoon till ten in the evening. Did he recall a courier bringing a package for Mr. Eldon Whitesides? she asked.

  A pause. “That’s the guest who’s missing.”

  “Right.”

  “Are you with the sheriff’s department?”

  “No, I work for Mr. Whitesides.”

  “I don’t know if I should be talking—”

  “I’m assisting Detective Rhoda Swift with the investigation.” More or less.

  “Oh, well, an envelope came by AeroCouriers at around nine-thirty. I signed for it.”

  “Did you take it to his room, or did he come down for it?”

  “Neither. His guest delivered it.”

  “Guest? Who was that?”

  “I don’t know her name. She came in while I was signing for the package. Asked for his room number, and said she’d take the package to him. I probably shouldn’t’ve given it to her, but I was alone on the desk and it’s inn policy never to leave it unmanned.”

  “Did you tell anyone from the sheriff’s department about this woman or the package?”

  “Not yet. The manager said somebody would be around to interview me later.”

  “Can you describe the woman for me?”

  “Dark-haired, short, kind of heavy. Maybe thirty-five. She was dressed real retro—long flowered skirt, green velvet cape. Talked different, like maybe she wasn’t from around here.”

  Bernina Tobin, with her flowing clothes and Maine accent.

  Bernina was home and welcomed Jessie into her cozy parlor. Rag rugs dotted the hardwood floor, and chintz-covered furnishings that looked more New England than Pacific Coast crowded the smallish space. She said she’d make tea, brushed aside Jessie’s protests, and went away to the kitchen, trailing a lavender scent that reminded Jessie of her third-grade teacher. Even at home Bernina dressed with her somewhat odd flair, today in an embroidered Chinese tunic and wide-legged jeans.

  She returned with a tray holding two steaming mugs and a plate of carrot cake, urged Jessie to help herself. Then she took her own mug to the sofa and sat with her legs drawn up beneath her. “I’m glad you stopped by,” she said. “I wondered what happened to you when you didn’t return my call yesterday, and when I heard Eldon Whitesides is missing . . . well, I got really freaked. Didn’t you get my messages?”

  She had, but she’d set them aside. “They’re not terribly efficient with messages at the Shorebird. I’ve been meaning to get in touch with you. I understand you went to see Eldon at the Tides Inn the night he disappeared.”

  Bernina frowned. “Who told you that?”

  “The desk clerk.”

  “I see. Well, yes, I did.”

  “Why?”

  “I wanted to talk about his strategy for stopping the waterbaggers.”

  “You couldn’t talk about that in front of the rest of us?”

  “Not really. I sensed you and Joseph didn’t approve of his methods, and I thought I should assure him of my support.”

  “Support for digging up dirt on people and using it to coerce them?”

  “You make it sound so . . . slimy.”

  “It is slimy.”

  “Jessie, how many situations like this one have you been involved in?”

  “None.”

  “Then you don’t know. Sometimes you have to resort to desperate measures in order to achieve your ends. Joseph realizes that, but he’s still living in the old days, when desperate measures amounted to tying oneself to a tree when the loggers came to cut it down. Nowadays . . . well, you do what’s necessary.”

  “So you offered your support to Eldon.”

  “Yes, and he was grateful. He said that a solution might be contained in the package I’d brought up to him, but that he’d have to study the documents and talk to some people before he’d know for sure. I left so he could do that. And now he’s missing.”

  “What time did you leave?”

  “I couldn’t’ve been there more than half an hour. So ten o’clock, maybe. Jessie, what do you suppose was in those documents?”

  “Information on the waterbaggers, I suppose.”

  “Who did he plan to talk with?”

  There was a banging at the door.

  Bernina glanced that way, her brow knitting. “Now, who . . . ?”

  Joseph�
��s voice called out, “Bernina! Open up.”

  “What’s with him?” she muttered, unfolding her legs and getting to her feet.

  “Bernina, I know you’re in there!”

  “Hold on, I’m coming.”

  But before she got to the door, it burst open, and Joseph stormed into the entryway, his face red with fury. “You goddamn idiot!” he exclaimed. “What the hell did you think you were doing, hiring a sniper?”

  JOSEPH OPENSHAW

  Bernina stood in front of him, her mouth flopping open and closed like a fish out of water. Her exaggerated look of innocence further enraged him, and while he had never struck a woman in his life, in the seconds before he saw Jessie Domingo rise from her seat in the parlor, he almost took a swing at Bernina.

  He balled his fists at his sides, breathed deeply, got himself under control. Then he asked again, “What the hell were you thinking of?”

  “I didn’t—”

  “Don’t deny it to me. I tracked down the scumbag you hired. Cost me a hundred bucks, and he wouldn’t actually admit to doing the job, but he confirmed that you approached him.”

  “What scumbag? I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

  Jessie had come to the archway leading into the parlor. “Joseph?” she said. “What’s this about a sniper?”

  “This one”—he flung out his arm at Bernina—“hired a guy named Wes Landis to shoot up that water bag.”

  Jessie’s eyes narrowed; she turned to Bernina. “Is that true?”

  Bernina’s defiant expression faded, and she backed up against the wall. “I was only trying to help our cause. I thought that if they saw how violently opposed we are—”

  “Help?” Joseph exclaimed. “Do you realize what damage you may have done?”

  “Nobody knows what I did but you two—and Landis.”

  “Plenty of people know. Landis couldn’t keep his mouth shut, and it’s being whispered about up and down the coast. Only a matter of time before the sheriff’s department hears one of those whispers. I just hope it’s after the state water board hearings; if you’re arrested, it could tip them in favor of Aqueduct.”