Burn Out

by Marcia Muller

  She shrugged. “I’ve seen tougher.”

  “I don’t know. I was married last year, first time. I can’t imagine how I’d deal with having my husband murdered.”

  “Tom? That asshole. I only married him because all the good guys were already taken.”

  “Like Rich Three Wings?”

  She drank from the mug, replenished it from a vodka bottle tucked beneath the table. “How d’you know about us?”

  “In a place like this, everybody knows everything.”

  “Ain’t that the damn truth? That Cammie—little Miss Priss—found out about Rich and me getting it on. Then the shit hit the fan.”

  “I thought Rich was pretty much committed to her.”

  “Pretty much, yeah. But she was pressuring for marriage, wouldn’t even move out to the lake to be with him unless they tied the knot, for Chrissake. He was starting to feel trapped and manipulated when I showed up to buy one of his rocking chairs. I wasn’t in any position to trap or manipulate him and he knew it, so he took me to bed. Again and again, till the silly little bitch caught on.”

  “And so you confronted him and Cammie—”

  “Give it a rest. I got a bad temper, but they’re both alive, aren’t they? And I didn’t kill Tom. He had another woman, you know. Maybe you should check her out. Lives in that trailer park where Hayley Perez bought it. Little mouse of a woman. I happen to know he was with her that night, they always got together on Tuesdays.”

  “That make you angry, T.C.?”

  “Annoyed, but I didn’t care enough about Tom to kill him over any woman.”

  “This ‘mouse’—you know her name?”

  “Judy Perkins. She works as a hair stylist at the Vernon Salon. Little skank, wouldn’t hurt anybody. And Tom came home alive and well that Tuesday.”

  “Any other ideas about who might’ve killed your husband?”

  “I don’t know. He was such a nothing. I can’t imagine why anyone would bother.” Her eyebrows pulled together. “He had something else going, though. Knew something he wasn’t telling me.”

  “For how long?”

  “Not very.”

  “And how do you know this?”

  “Tom wasn’t subtle. He’d been strutting around acting smug and arrogant, talking about all the money he was going to have, and if I was nice to him he’d share.”

  “But you have no idea where this money was coming from?”

  “Uh-uh.” She reached for the bottle, refilled the mug. “It must’ve been something big. But before he could collect, he went and got himself killed. Stupid bastard. Now what am I gonna do?”

  I, I, I . . .

  Me, me, me . . .

  A prevalent mindset in contemporary society, and God knew I’d recently been guilty of it myself.

  So Tom Mathers had had something big going. What, possibly, could that be? He was a wilderness guide; good money in that, and in the supply business, but it wasn’t going to make him rich—not unless he’d discovered Bigfoot or a vein of gold during one of those treks.

  It sounded to me like blackmail.

  There are three kinds of major-crime felons who are too stupid for words: bank robbers, kidnappers, and blackmailers. The first two because they almost always get caught; the last one because they are frequently killed by their own victims.

  But who could Tom Mathers’ prospective victim be? A wealthy client who had committed some indiscretion on one of his wilderness tours? I’d like to get my hands on Tom’s calendar and invoices. Perhaps tomorrow when T.C. would—hopefully—be sober.

  But right now, onward to see Judy Perkins.

  I drove through the trailer park until I found Perkins’ space, one row down from Boz Sheppard’s. It was small but well kept-up, with her name painted on a cheerful yellow mailbox. I got out of the Rover and started along a path of flagstones.

  A woman’s voice called out, “If you’re looking for Judy, she’s not home.”

  I turned. The speaker was elderly, wearing shorts that exposed well-muscled legs; for some reason, she was watering her graveled yard.

  “You know where she is?”

  “Out of town. Someplace near LA. Her mother’s taken sick. Probably’ll have to be put in a home.”

  “That’s too bad. When did Judy leave?”

  “Almost two weeks ago, Sunday. I been picking up her mail.”

  Almost two weeks ago, Sunday. The day after Hy and I had found Tom Mathers’ body.

  “You have her mother’s address or phone number?”

  “No. Why—?”

  “That’s okay. I think I have it in my book at home.”

  I started back to the Rover, but the woman said, “Sure has been a lot of tragedy in this place lately.”

  “You mean Hayley Perez?”

  “Yes. And now I hear they’ve arrested Boz Sheppard. Such a nice young man; he used to help me take out my garbage.”

  Well, everybody has a few good points. “The night Hayley was killed—did you hear the shot?”

  “. . . Yeah, I heard it. Everybody did.”

  “But nobody called 911.”

  “Not that I know of. Or if they did, they’re not saying. I didn’t; I locked my doors and kept the lights low. I’m old and so’re a lot of the other folks here. Not easy to defend ourselves.”

  “Did Judy hear it?”

  “She didn’t say. You’ll have to ask her yourself.” She turned back to watering her gravel lawn.

  The old Toyota was still in Cammie Charles’ driveway, but its trunk lid was up. I parked behind it, glanced inside on my way to the house’s propped-open front door. Boxes and plastic garbage bags. The backseat contained more boxes and a couple of suitcases.

  As I reached the door, I came face-to-face with Charles. Her arms were loaded with a comforter and pillows, her pert face flushed with exertion.

  “What’s happening, Cammie?” I asked.

  She stared, not recognizing me.

  “Sharon McCone. We met at Petals—”

  “Oh, right. Would you mind . . . ?” She motioned with her head that she wanted to get around me.

  I took a couple of pillows from the top of the bundle, stepped back, and followed her to the car. “You moving in with Rich—?”

  “No. That’s over. I’m going back to the Bay Area.” She stuffed the comforter into the trunk, took the pillows from me.

  “What happened?”

  She didn’t reply, punching the pillows into place as if they were defying her.

  “Does this have to do with Rich’s affair with T.C. Mathers?”

  She slammed the trunk lid shut and turned to face me. “God, how many more people have to remind me of that? No, it does not.”

  “What, then?”

  “None of your damn business.”

  “The two of you were on a camping trip. What went wrong?”

  “What can go wrong on a camping trip? A bear ate our food? We burned the s’mores? Rich didn’t catch any fish? Take your pick!”

  “Seriously . . .”

  “Seriously, I’m out of here. Go away!”

  “Cammie—”

  She straightened, balling her fists. “You want to know what’s wrong? This place. People talking and prying into your life. People who don’t really care about anybody but themselves, and will do anything to avoid responsibility. Go away!”

  No sense in antagonizing her further. I went.

  Rich Three Wings was chopping wood again. The sound of the axe smashing its target rang out over the quiet waters of Elk Lake. Given the sorrow and aggravation he’d suffered recently, he’d soon have enough logs to fill all the fireplaces of Vernon.

  He heard me approach and turned, eyes reflecting the fire from the late afternoon light off the lake.

  “What do you want?” he demanded.

  “I saw Cammie—”

  “Fuck Cammie!”

  “What went wrong, Rich? You were camping in Toiyabe—”

  “Who said we were in To
iyabe?”

  “The clerk at Petals.”

  “Verna? Stupid bitch doesn’t know one camping place from another. We were over in Yosemite.”

  But the clerk had been sure that they’d gone to the national forest.

  “Whatever,” I said. “Something went wrong, though.”

  “Damn right it did!” He turned away, resumed his chopping.

  “You want to talk about it?”

  No answer, just the ringing of the axe.

  “Rich?”

  “No, I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “But she’s moving back to the Bay Area. It must’ve been serious.”

  He pivoted, the axe held high, the sunlight making its metal blade shine as fiery as his eyes. “What part of ‘no’ don’t you understand?”

  I began moving away, watching him carefully. “I understand you’re hurting. You know where you can find me if you need a friend.”

  It was nearing dusk and Petals was closed. I walked two doors down to Hobo’s and asked the friendly bartender with whom I’d spoken nearly two weeks earlier if he knew where Verna lived.

  “This got to do with Miri?” he asked.

  “In a way. I want to buy some flowers.”

  “Poor Miri. But I don’t think there’ll be a service. Just cremation and her ashes scattered on the lake.”

  “These are for Sara and Ramon—to try to cheer them up.”

  “Nice idea. Verna’s out at that trailer park where Miri’s daughter got herself killed.”

  “You know which space?”

  “Just look for the Airstream with all the rosebushes outside.”

  The rosebushes were blooming. I could see their huge blossoms even in the dim light. Verna must be some gardener, I thought. Rosebushes could be coaxed to bloom year-round at California’s lower levels, but I’d never seen them this late in the fall at such a high altitude. The trailer was one of those streamlined silver ones. Light glowed behind its closed blinds, and music filtered out—something soothing and classical that I didn’t recognize. Maybe Verna’s choice of music was what made the roses grow so well. More likely it was her green thumb: some people just have the knack. For others, like me, the thumb is black.

  She answered my knock after a few moments, wearing a Japanese-style robe, her hair wrapped in a terry cloth turban. I gave her my card, said I had a few questions about Cammie Charles’ and Rich Three Wings’ camping trip.

  “Why?” she asked.

  “I spoke with Cammie about an hour ago. She’s moving back to the Bay Area.”

  “I know. She called and asked me to cover for her at the shop tomorrow.”

  “What happened?”

  Verna didn’t answer the question, but she let me inside. She turned off the music, motioned me to be seated in one of a pair of armchairs facing a small TV.

  “I’m worried about Cammie.” She reached for a pack of cigarettes on the table between us. “You mind?” she asked.

  “No,” I lied. “Were she and Rich camping in Yosemite or Toiyabe?”

  She flicked a lighter, inhaled deeply, and blew out a plume of smoke. “Toiyabe. I told you that before.”

  “You did, and that’s what puzzles me. Rich claims they were in Yosemite.”

  “No way. Cammie’s still an urbanite—deathly scared of ‘something bad happening’—as if it wasn’t more likely to happen in the Bay Area than here.” She paused, probably reflecting back on the events of the past weeks. “Well, it used to be more likely. Anyway, we were good friends, so she always let me know where they’d be going and when they’d be back. Usually she’d call to tell me they’d gotten there okay.”

  “Did she call this time?”

  “Yeah. They were at a combination gas station and convenience store off of 395.”

  “Was Rich with her when she made the call?”

  “I don’t know— No, wait. She said he’d forgotten to bring beer and was inside picking up a couple of six-packs.”

  “You know where they went in Toiyabe?” From what I remembered of my only visit to the forest, there were a number of places where you could enter: some led to secondary roads, others only to trailheads.

  “Devil’s Gate, a few miles before Fales Hot Springs. There’s no overnight parking or camping there, so they’d pull the car off into the trees and hike in to some favorite place of theirs.” She stubbed out her cigarette, which was only halfway smoked. “Trying to quit. Figure if I only smoke part . . . But that’s bull and I know it.”

  “Did Cammie explain what went wrong on the trip?”

  “Not really. She said something they saw up there and Rich’s reaction to it that told her he wasn’t the man she thought he was.”

  “Something they saw?”

  “That was all she said.” Verna shrugged. “If you ask me, Cammie’s trying to throw a scare into Rich.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he won’t marry her. She gave me a phone number where I could reach her in the Bay Area. Probably she thinks I’ll pass it on to him and he’ll come after her.”

  “May I have it?”

  She read it to me from a scratch pad on the table. Area code 510—East Bay, a lot of territory.

  “I’m worried about her,” Verna said again. “I know for a fact she’s broke—probably doesn’t have ten bucks on her.”

  “Well, she gave you that phone number. It must belong to a friend, somebody who’ll help her.”

  “Hope so.”

  “If she gets in touch, will you let me know? You can call me on my cell.”

  She looked at my card, nodded again. “Cammie’s a nice woman. She deserves better than Rich Three Wings.”

  “Why d’you say that?”

  “Well, he cheated on her and now he doesn’t want to get married. In my book, that makes him pond scum.”

  I drove directly to Tufa Tower, where I fetched the San Francisco aviation sectional that covered this area from the plane. Then I went to Zelda’s, took a table in the bar area, and ordered a burger and a beer. I’d also brought with me the Thomas Guide from the Rover. While I waited for my food, I sipped and studied them both.

  The guide showed me where the Devil’s Gate entrance to the Toiyabe National Forest was. A short way inside, the road stopped in the middle of nowhere. Well, that didn’t tell me anything. Next I studied the sectional. It showed that the area where the couple had camped was about three miles from the trailhead, southeast of Mount Patterson, altitude 8,500 feet. There were some buildings nearby—probably maintenance sheds or other rudimentary facilities.

  Well, great. That helps a lot.

  My food came. I ate, contemplating the situation. They’d gone up toward Mount Patterson and stumbled across something. Rich had reacted in a way that told Cammie he wasn’t the man she thought he was.

  People who don’t really care about anybody but themselves, and will do anything to avoid responsibility.

  What had Rich Three Wings done to avoid responsibility?

  After I left the restaurant I called the number in the Bay Area that Verna had given me. A machine told me I’d reached the Clarks. I decided not to leave a message; Cammie couldn’t possibly be there yet and wouldn’t return my call anyway.

  On the new machine at home I found—among others—a message from Kristen Lark: “I’ve arranged for you to see Boz Sheppard down in Inyo at one o’clock tomorrow.”

  I returned the call, got her machine, and left my own message about my day’s activities. Then I curled up in the old, saggy, spindle-posted double bed and pulled up to my ears the quilts that Hy’s mother had made for it. In minutes, I was asleep.

  No more dreams about pits for me. Other grotesque and disturbing things might haunt my mind in sleep—and probably always would—but somehow I’d climbed my way into the sunlight like a clever spider should.

  Tuesday

  NOVEMBER 13

  Inyo County is one of the largest in California: ten thousand acres that encompass Mount Whitney, the h
ighest point in the U.S. outside Alaska; Owens Valley, the deepest on the American continents; and one of the most beautiful, forbidding, and awe-inspiring places in the world, Death Valley.

  Inyo’s size makes it a difficult county for its sheriff’s department to patrol: a person on the run can easily hide out there; the remains of victims of violence are frequently not found, if at all, until they’re reduced to bone fragments; residents of small, hostile enclaves are clannish, impervious to the law, and outright dangerous. An extreme example is the Manson family, who conducted their murderous forays from an isolated ranch east of Death Valley.

  In the interest of saving time, I opted to fly Two-Seven-Tango to the county seat of Independence, then call a taxi to take me to the jail at the opposite end of town. I’d driven through there on the highway before, but always in a hurry to reach another destination; now, as the cab took me along the main street, I noted motels and small businesses, false-fronted buildings, side streets on which modest homes were tucked. Independence reminded me of Bridgeport: an old-fashioned courthouse, definite Western feel, and at its limits the empty, sage-covered desert stretching toward distant purplish hills. Today was clear but cold; snow dusted faraway peaks, and few people moved along the sidewalks; those who did hunched inside their heavy outerwear for warmth.

  The driver dropped me at the starkly functional-looking jail and said he’d probably be there when I came out. “Nothing much happening today. You’re my first fare. If I’m not here, call and ask for Troy.” He gave me his card.

  Lark had paved the way for me and, after the usual security checks, I was ushered into the visitors’ room; shortly afterward a guard brought in Boz Sheppard.

  Now that I had a close-up look at him, I decided Sheppard looked as if he were descended from rodents—white lab rats, perhaps. His nose came to a sharp point; his teeth were long and yellowed; he sported a scraggly mustache and an even more scraggly beard; his greasy brown hair was drawn back into a ponytail. Under the orange jail jumpsuit there would be tattoos—usually are on men like him.

  He smiled at me, showing more of those teeth than I’d’ve liked to see, and said, “So Mono’s sent in reinforcements, huh?”

  I studied him until his smile faded and he shifted in his chair.